


A Werewolf and a Banker

by Capriciously_Terminal



Category: Wayward Guide for the Untrained Eye (Web Series)
Genre: Backstory, But We'll Get There I Promise, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, During Canon, Light Angst, M/M, Not Too Shippy in the Beginning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28765998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Capriciously_Terminal/pseuds/Capriciously_Terminal
Summary: A werewolf (and a banker) walks into a bar and does his best to make a life from himself in a small town.A werewolf (and a banker) forms a pack.A werewolf (and a banker) tries his best to save the day from a place in the shadows.A werewolf (and a banker) might just fall in love along the way.But isn't that a joke?Or: a character study on one Sybilus Silver II (werewolf and banker).
Relationships: Desmond Brewer/Quinn Cassidy, Sybilus Silver II & Desmond Brewer, Sybilus Silver II & Helen Unger, Sybilus Silver II & Olivia Tompkins, Sybilus Silver II & Rita Waldeburg, Sybilus Silver II/Paul Schue-Horyn
Comments: 58
Kudos: 18





	1. A Kind of Life

**Author's Note:**

> So A.J. Holmes made me fall in love with a werewolf within like five minutes of meeting him, and that was very cool of him.
> 
> And I literally couldn't help but spin an entire backstory out of my head for how this stuttering kind-hearted werewolf came into all these positions of power. (And, of course, how he and his new pack friends interacted behind all the spooky conspiracy).
> 
> This is meant to be like a backstory which will transition into a canon walk through before finally becoming pure shipping future stuff if I can get all the way there.

_It was an old joke really, one his father used to tell around the fireplace when he came home from a hard day’s work at the bank with his hat in his hands and dark circles ringing his eyes. He would sit by his oldest son with his face pale and a full moon on the rise, check the time, and do his best to keep smiling. The joke helped, if the smile remained somewhat sad._

A werewolf and a banker walked into a bar, and both ended up run out of town by an angry mob at the end of the night.

One of them had the best intentions upon his arrival, and yet he was hated and cursed at on sight.

The other of them was just a really hairy werewolf.

_But, actually, that was the wrong way to tell the joke._

A werewolf, _and a banker_ , walked into a bar.

And he sat very quietly, nursing a lemonade, after ordering a strange steak dish that he had come to call “the usual.” He didn’t exactly know what the chef put in "the usual," but was impressive every time.

As he sat he didn’t snarl or shatter chairs or check the phases of the moon with the consistent nerves of a doomed man. Instead, he simply hoped nobody would come up behind him to engage him in too-long conversations.

It wasn’t that Sybilus didn’t want to talk to people, it was more that people often didn’t want to spend the whole time talking to him.

He knew how his words skipped and slid as his brain skidded after them, tossing synonyms into their path to divert them when most of the folks of Connor Creek were already sprinting ahead of him in the conversations. If he didn’t interject fiercely enough he would get left in the wayside easily enough in a town like this one, which he often did.

_Not that he minded, per say, if you asked his opinion on the matter._

Because he knew he didn’t cut the most intimidating figure. With his soft face, well-loved suit jackets, gleaming wire-spectacles, and labored attempts at speech he wasn’t surprised when waiters left in the middle of his order at restaurants or conversation partners leapt to the end of his sentences and wrongly assumed what he was trying to say (without truly listening when he attempted to correct them).

So it might have been easier for people who weren’t Desmond or Rita to let him nod his greetings with a slight smile while he waited on his food to take back to his little house. Which he would eat, alone, in front of the television, while watching a documentary about ghost towns or rare tree frogs.

It was, all things considered, a good life.

* * *

Just like the others of his kind who managed to make their way to Connor Creek, drawn inevitably to a little town on the edge of nothing, he’d adapted to this way of life (a regular way of life) rather quickly.

It was, for example, rare now for him to be waylaid with an intense desire to tear a bloody swath through the townsfolk while he screamed up at the moon like some impossible and ancient force of nature. After which he would inevitably awaken as himself again.

A banker who would inevitably face the consequences for the actions of a monster.

Instead he, the werewolf and the banker all in one, could get a corner desk at the bank with a fine varnish that he could line with identical fountain pens.

He could have his whole name engraved into a nameplate of something that looked like gold but cost far less and, shine it when he arrived for work on time each day.

He could take a moment to linger in the evening in the lone tailor’s shop in town to choose between the royal blue pinstripe and the navy blue pinstripe for a new jacket he might commission for himself at the end of the quarter if everything went according to plan and he managed to secure that Christmas bonus.

It was a kind life.

One where he could meet with Rita, Odie, Olivia, and Helen to play cards in the back of the mortician’s office in the dead of night, with their eyes gleaming gold and true in the lamplight. Rita could smell a lie a mile away, and they could all howl with laughter in a more literal way when he inevitably lost horribly.

Helen would then easily heft him over her shoulders after he swayed under the influence of a single drink, and carry him home without asking, just as he would in turn save the crispest new dollar bills for her when she came to cash in her checks.

It was a _pack_ life.

* * *

It was a far better life than the one he suffered in his first days in Connor Creek.

Back when he was nothing more than a haggard banker fleeing massacre after massacre in a torn suit and cracked glasses. He never could have guessed how everything would change once his newest (and inevitably doomed) banking job sent him to check up on the loan plan taken out to re-do the bar of one Dead Canary Inn.

That banker had been praying that he could at least spend two days in town before the moon came, so that he could shower or sleep in a bed without leaping awake at the slightest noise. Perhaps he could make it two days before someone was inevitably killed.

After which things would move quickly. He’d have to hide in plain sight until his job was done (if he was lucky) and sprint out of town on all fours before he could think (regardless of luck).

He’d walked over from the nearest town (which was still quite far away), and had worn his shoes clean out. He’d started the journey with his latest rental car, but he’d had to run out on it when he transformed into a giant fucking werewolf and threw a corpse through the window of said nearest town’s only McDonalds.

It had taken Desmond Brewer one look to realize what he was, and Sybilus about five looks in turn along with with some thinly-veiled comments about them being cut of the same cloth. Though he still had to politely request that Desmond flick his irises to a darker color and extend his canine teeth to something sharper before Sybilus truly accepted that he was the real deal.

He didn’t tell anyone anything about himself in that old way of life, even the people who initially figured him out and thought it to be attractive or fun that he was a werewolf would inevitably turn on him when the bodies started dropping.

Or, occasionally, when he had to try to explain to them how interest worked and the money they still owed to the bank no matter the very large secret they knew about him (he was but a simple banker after all).

Desmond had closed the bar early, came around the front to sit across from Sybilus, and did him the courtesy of looking away when he started crying at the gasp of relief that filled his entire body in the warm light of the bar.

Desmond, it turned out, was old. And powerful. And willing to share land with any poor lycanthrope in need. He also had his finances incredibly in order.

The few other times he’d met someone like Desmond, a bastion of an older time well and truly embedded in a town’s history without arousing a shred of suspicion, they’d coolly told him that their home wasn’t big enough for two werewolves.

Especially one who clearly had no fucking idea how to control himself. Some simply saw him and told him to leave.

But Desmond was remarkably different.

He regaled Sybilus with the tale of the Connors and the MacMahons, and offered him the key to a way of life where he could stop running.

Microscopic amounts of silver in the earth, the very thing that he was so sure would inevitably kill him one day, would let him keep himself in order.

The tiniest bit danger for the largest imaginable reward.

A town where people could come to learn his name if he wanted them to.

“You’d be a Connor, not in blood, but a Connor all the same.” Desmond had said as he clapped a hand on Sybilus’s shoulder.

“I–I–I would be delighted–er–astonished–er–enthused– _overjoyed_.” He managed, finally managing to keep the tears at bay.

And so it had been. Desmond had left him a room in The Dead Canary free of charge until he got himself settled, he’d made introductions between Sybilus and Mrs. Banks (the overwhelmed owner of and single teller at The Second Bank of Connor Creek), and Desmond had even run with once on his first full moon in town.

With the moon lazily dangling in the sky, and the whole town asleep, Desmond had shown him the various paths through the surrounding woods in a single night where he could run in all of his power, but with all the control he ever wanted.

He could be both parts of himself, and be so alive that he’d forget a time where he’d ever been only one. He had let out a howl that sounded like a whooping laugh, and felt as though he'd been reborn when Desmond joined in.

He’d been a little in love with Desmond after that. It had only been…slightly embarrassing, and it never would have worked out (the man was already married and didn’t know how to send an email) but he loved him all the same.

He helped Desmond explain their circumstances the next time, when Helen was assigned to town to replace the oldest civil servant in recorded history, and she nearly tackled him on instinct after she gave him a ticket for jaywalking when he was late to work.

And again, when Rita stepped off a bus with a thick black doctor’s bag of taxidermy supplies and a dreamy look on her face. She had simply looked him over, asked him his measurements, and immediately begun hypothesizing about his funeral.

It was oddly sweet, if somewhat nauseating.

He even tried to help explain it to Odie Dotie, who had simply jogged up to town one day with nothing but the small bag on his back and a love of the mail. Granted, Sybilus had no idea if that explanation stuck as he tried to sprint after the dizzyingly new young and fit postman while wearing a suit jacket and carrying a briefcase.

Even if he was a werewolf, he was a relatively tame one at this point. Kept in check with silver deposits and cuts of meat from Vern who regaled him with stories of life in an older world chock full of werewolves.

He became a favorite at the bank for the time he took to listen and explain, a dedicated listener at town meetings, and an avid hiker in the light of day and under the moon as he finally let himself get comfortable.

But then Miner Mole came into town, with talk of draining the silver deposits and Desmond became twitchy. And when Desmond got a twitch every other new Connor wolf knew to be just as wary.

Not that Sybilus didn’t understand why. At night, as he straightened his house (newly purchased) and pressed his shirts (lovingly tended), he tried to not scream when Silas Torsen’s voice interrupted the fuzzy classical music channel like an ill omen.

He’d needed to sit down as the music returned while the calculations ran in his head.

Miner Mole would inevitably, deeply, deplete the silver reserves for personal gain. In doing so it would flood Connor Creek’s economy with financial success and perhaps finally draw in the businesses many of them were dependent on.

As a banker he was thrilled, as a werewolf he was horrified.

Because in the long run, Miner Mole’s plans would inevitably lead to one of two things.

Either they would bring too much silver to the surface too soon, and it would inevitably come into contact with one of the town’s six werewolves and kill them instantly. This in turn would expose their secret and cause mass hysteria.

Or, through strip mining, they would simply eat away at it. Human-kind would swallow the only thing that kept Sybilus’s life fully together in polite bites, destroying anything stable or comfortable he had tried to build and leaving him with an old choice: stay and inevitably kill someone or just start running now.

Both options were ultimately unsustainable.

He only had to sit on his bed for about ten minutes, weeping pitifully without being able to move, before he decided that _something needed to be done._

* * *

And so, when Mrs. Banks brought up Miner Mole’s request for someone to personally handle all of their accounts and their silver deposits within their branch of the bank, Sybilus volunteered.

Not only that, but he insisted that Mrs. Banks already had too much on her plate when she seemed unsure about leaving it to him.

And he warmly took her hand in both of his and reminded her that her retirement was coming up soon, and that Sybilus was ready for more responsibility within the bank because she had taught him so well.

She had taken it as impressive initiative.

He had been panicking.

And then, not a week later, when she did retire to pursue bird watching competitively, she stepped down from the town council as well. And then she did the most surprising thing.

This whip-smart and rail-thin woman, who barely came up to Sybilus’s shoulder but could lead anyone through the process of financing a subsidized loan, went and pulled him out of the crowd.

She offered her seat to Sybilus, and all but demanded that no-one run against him for want of someone who understood economics on the council.

She threatened to publish the check stubs of any who refused her, and no-one seemed uneasy at the thought of someone who had only been in town for about two years representing them.

The motion passed.

Sybilus of course immediately got a stomach ache, and burst into tears at the kindness of a woman who had treated him like a son since he arrived (shaking) into her office with Desmond.

She always knew he had some kind of secret, he thought. She always knew he had a past that he jumped at the thought of. But she never asked. She never pushed.

And yet as he swept into her frail arms and she whispered assurances, he knew that this was another important move.

A very _big_ and sudden push from a woman Sybilus could lift with one hand and balance on his palm if he really tried.

 _A werewolf on the seat of the town council_ , he’d faintly thought to himself as he was sworn in to polite applause, _who would have ever thought it possible_.

Granted, Desmond had been offered a seat at least three times, but for Sybilus it felt important.

He had a vote, he had a voice, and perhaps now there was something he could do as Miner Mole was making moves to set up a branch in town.

And then, a month later, when Dr. Pocket died and nobody was thrilled to place his young (clearly alcoholic) replacement in a seat of public import, he had a recommendation as to the next scientific professional in town that the seat should be offered to.

So, Rita also joined the council. Again, a huge day for werewolf rights.

Granted, at that same meeting the council elected a dog for a mayor, so it was only slightly underwhelming.

But then, with all his newfound power and Rita there to pull faces at when Agnes spoke about the necessity of installing a Cheesecake Factory for just a bit too long, he realized that he had _no idea what he was doing_.

It was true that he handled the silver deposits from Miner Mole’s work personally (wearing sturdy gloves while transferring it into his briefcase to carry it to the bank) but he couldn't exactly do anything to _stop_ them.

His plans, none of which went through, were as follows: find genuine bank fraud in their midst and expose them (there wasn’t any), _fake_ bank fraud on the part of Miner Mole Incorporated (he had no idea how to do so), steal the silver and throw it back into the reserves (no luck, he’d be the only suspect), kill Silas Toren (he only considered it once), and finally begin instigating a whistle blowing campaign about the blatant HR violations Miner Mole exhibited in their treatment of local staff (no-one would stand with him).

After a few weeks of stale progress he’d gone to Desmond for advice, begging him for instructions about what to do as a man on the inside, or how he could rally the town council to vote to banish the company.

Desmond, however, had very little to offer in the way of bold strokes.

“You can’t be the first to speak on it, that’ll make you suspicious. Or worse, a target. You’ve gotta follow the group, Sybilus. If you don’t they’ll sniff you out sure as shit.” He spoke like a rock at the edge of a distant shore, one that had been crashed against by wave after wave, but still remained steadfast in the face of the unending ocean.

“B-But how do we stop it? It’s _killing us_ , Desmond. Slowly. Slightly. But it’s killing us all the same.”

Desmond had let out a sigh, and far in the back Sybilus heard Quinn banging about in the kitchen. Desmond’s eyes were drawn to the door, soft and dismayed all at once.

“We gotta leave it up to them. The humans may not understand our dog in this particular hunt, but they know right from wrong. If it’s important enough they’ll see reason.”

“If you s-s-s-say so,” Sybilus acquiesced, tiredly rubbing sweat from his forehead at the thought of the Irons family or Agnes swooping in to save the local werewolf population.

* * *

And for a while that was all Sybilus had.

He feared for his life with each suitcase full of silver he carried back to the bank to leave in a vault.

He smiled with his hands on his knees balled into tight fists that left red crescent shaped marks in his palms at each council meeting where Miner Mole slowly gained traction.

It was, all things considered, hopeless.

And then, one day, Ryan Reynolds simply decided that he’d had enough.

He began advocating for the removal of Miner Mole to anyone who would give him their ears.

And then he kept doing so. Vocally and publicly and with sparking clean intent.

And people began to listen to him.

Sybilus knew that he couldn’t be seen directly speaking to him, not without being dismissed from his position. Though every fiber of his being wanted to scream from the rooftops that the young man was absolutely right.

He’d been working with Miner Mole long enough now to see that their motives were purely financial and they didn’t give a single fuck for the heart of their small town, but he knew this position was too important to give up on the simple promise of being seen backing Ryan.

So instead he began plotting.

Rita could reach out to Ryan under cover of night, passing him Sybilus’s briefcase filled with smuggled out check stubs and a silver deposit schedule that was surely pushing against regulations. Financial predictions showing the slow removal of small-town businesses to be replaced with Miner Mole subsidiaries. And inevitably when Ryan needed other details or documents Sybilus could procure them.

Finally, something to do as a man on the inside.

And as he was about to reach out to Rita about it Ryan was suddenly gone. According to Sheriff Reynolds he was leaving for the big city to find someone to help get the word out about their story.

So he had to wait until he returned.

And then Ryan Reynolds was killed, found with wolf claws down his back in the middle of the street.

Sybilus (upon being told by a raving Mary Jo and Ellis when they came into the bank to make a deposit the next morning) hadn’t had time to excuse himself before he promptly threw up into his wastepaper basket.

The couple didn’t even seem to notice, and had instead run to further spread the news, leaving Sybilus to throw up again unobserved. He’d then gingerly crawled under his desk, curled up with his knees to his chest, and tried to stop hyperventilating for most of the day.

It did not work.

A few people poked their heads into the bank in the unspecific amount of time he spent attempting to get himself together. He did his best to remain still and silent when the bell above the door rang, but upon not seeing him they all seemed to assume it was empty and went home.

That was how Olivia found him, well into the afternoon. She’d snuck a wrapped prime rib of Vern’s, sliced into slivers, out from her purse and joined him in eating it under his desk.

“It wasn’t you, was it?” Olivia had asked, sucking the last of her steak from her fingers. In her fine fur-lined coat, with her hair spilling in a coppery curtain over one shoulder, she looked every inch a werewolf queen.

Sybilus watched juice dribble onto his tie as he froze, his final piece inches from his open mouth, and felt like the most useless werewolf in town.

He shot her a dirty look, his heart rate had finally been getting back under control with the meat sitting well in his stomach, but he felt the characteristic hitch in his chest of panic at the question.

Apparently this was all Olivia needed to see.

“Figured as much,” she said.

“W-was it you?”

“If I had to eat anyone in this town it would have been his opponent, the Reynolds boy was far too stringy for my taste.”

“O-O-O–“ he began to splutter, his face going splotchy as he reached out to swat at her shoulder.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I actually really liked him,” she held up her hands in surrender before looping a long arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. She smelled of fine perfume and something buried deep in the forest.

“What are we going to do?” He whispered, mortified, his face against the fur lining of her shoulder. “He was the voi–the voi–the voice. He was the face. Without him, how do we stop it?”

Olivia shrugged, and the setting sun painted the walls of the bank a deep orange. The moon would be rising soon, a mere sliver now that would surely and inevitably grow.

“Well, I suppose we’ll just have to find a new voice,” she reached out and scrubbed her thumb over his hair in a way that was almost comforting.

Sybilus released a shaky breath, his heart burning in his chest, and yet he still felt he was holding it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our gentle wolfman has a problem on his hands, whoever shall sweep into town and help him figure this out? ; )
> 
> (We all know its the Schue-Horyn twins).
> 
> I have most of the next chapter finished, but we'll see when I can get it done by.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this!


	2. A Meeting in a Booth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following a far too suspicious introduction with one Paul Schue-Horyn, Sybilus must explain the events of a singular conversation and the new stakes of their secrecy to two of his friends and pack.
> 
> He was prepared for fury, shame, or even expulsion.
> 
> What he wasn't prepared for was the teasing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah that "second chapter" I was almost done with has now grown to be 11,859 words long (and it is not done)...so we're going to cut it up into little vignettes occurring simultaneously throughout canon.
> 
> At least this means I can update it faster (this is the fastest I've ever updated anything).
> 
> Granted, I say "little" but I am aware that the master document for this fic is now the longest document on my laptop. I never would have guessed that I would write something longer than my hypothetical thesis about Sybilus Silver II, especially seeing as I met him like four days ago, but I am oddly excited about it.
> 
> I no longer know how many chapters there are in this. I am vexed by this.
> 
> But anyway, get ready for some anxious gay™ energy. Paul Schue-Horyn has landed on the scene and Sybilus will never recover.

Sybilus slammed into a booth at his regular table at The Dead Canary with the grace (or lack thereof) of a desperate man, winded after essentially sprinting several miles from the Miner Mole office as fast as he could on two legs.

He’d made a point, in this new life, not to sprint anywhere anymore.

He was more likely to take strolls now, or the occasional light jog if Odie wanted company or needed help carrying some kind of promotional material. He even sped-walked with the best of them on Saturday mornings listening to the occasional economic podcast.

But he had made an exception this time, because there was an old part of his brain that demanded he flee the Miner Mole offices as quickly as he could.

That survival-oriented consciousness knew he had to get away from any people before he accidentally began babbling madly to himself about how foolish he had been for not simply bolting out of the waiting room as soon as he saw Paul Schue-Horyn and his microphone.

He was at a point in his career where he could handle the general silver deposits for the Miner Mole account with his eyes closed.

This was good. Because whenever Silas Toren attempted to crack a joke or say something to him as he’d come in for his late appointment, all he’d heard was his own heartbeat roaring in his ears and the faintest ringing sound that signaled the arrival of absolute panic.

He also couldn’t string more than five words together over the course of the entire forty-five minute meeting.

One of them was “yes” which he managed to use frequently whenever Silas looked at him like it was Sybilus's turn to contribute something to the conversation. It seemed to serve him very well. 

For once Sybilus thanked God for the terrible workplace treatment found within this branch of Miner Mole.

It meant that Silas simply hadn’t noticed how Sybilus’s face had gone a chalky white as he’d entered, or that he looked as though he would simply collapse at the mention of the name Schue-Horyn.

And maybe it meant that, when exposure was inevitably looming at his door, Silas of all people simply wouldn’t notice that Sybilus was a werewolf. If so, at least he'd keep his job.

The longest sentence he managed to use came up only once.

He offered up a brief “I have to go,” as soon as the silver was in his briefcase and he could see a clear path to the door.

_If he’d been able to listen he would have heard Silas call, as he hightailed it out of the office:_

_“Damn, Sybilus, you’re the only man I know who actually uses gloves in the collection process every single time.”_

But he hadn’t heard that. Instead he’d blown past the Irons family without even considering scheduling a follow up appointment, and only taken a moment's reprieve for his burning lungs to lean against a wall out of sight and fumble for his ancient cell phone.

He’d managed to call Helen and Rita from leaning against the wall (despite needing to redial three separate times as his fingers shook), and did not _scream_ as much as calmly _yelp_ that they had a problem and that they needed to meet him as fast as they could.

Which lead him here, desperately attempting to align the words in his head to explain everything that happened in front of Rita and Helen in the middle of the afternoon.

“What is it?” Helen demanded, still in her highlighter yellow vest with her ticket pad thrown down onto the table, her eyes roaming over him as if checking for sign of injury. “What’s wrong?”

“Is someone dead?” Rita asked with her eyebrows raised. “Because I’m prepared for the necessary steps if they are.” Her hands were folded neatly in front of her.

“It’s the p-p-p- _podcaster_. P-P-P-P-“ Sybilus’s face began to heat up, and it felt like which his whole body was racing to do the same.

Maybe it was the sprinting. Maybe it was the panic. Maybe he was dying. Wouldn’t that have been easier? Heatstroke in a booth instead of a silver bullet on the thoroughfare.

He attempted to wrestle out of his jacket, still futilely trying to get the word out before Helen slid him a glass of water across the table.

Once his arms were free he attempted to down the whole glass in one long pull, which inevitably went down the wrong pipe.

He began to choke, pounding at his chest and making an ungodly amount of noise.

“Go slower,” Helen said.

After a few hacking breaths he finished the second half of the glass, slower per Helen’s instructions, and calmed the burning in his throat enough to continue a conversation.

“Paul?” Rita offered gently.

Sybilus nodded, emphatically, chest still heaving. “H–He knows. About w–w–w–were–.“

Rita shot him a look, and he heard a _thud_ as Dr. Edwards’s head lolled into a bowl of soup at the bar. He hadn’t even noticed him in the blur of his arrival

“–us. He knows about us. He all but t-t-t-told me so at Miner Mole today.”

Rita and Helen shared a serious look.

“Does he _know_ know? Or does he _Aubrey_ know?” Helen kept her voice down with her hands planted firmly on the table, but her lips were pressed in a thin line and she suddenly started keeping her eyes on the door, as if she could already hear the mob on the move.

“Did he get any dirt on you? Because I _could_ kill him. Easily.” Rita instead, ever the pragmatist, looked back at him with the cold fury of the night. And the excitement of a creative who rarely had a chance to show off her finesse.

“Well he doesn’t–he doesn’t have dirt on _me_ exactly–or not me–per say. Or well–not on anyone. I don’t know exactly what he thinks about–about _me_ , specifically. Or anyone specifically. He more asked my opinion on the very existence in town of w–w–werewolves.” He spluttered, hands weaving through the air as he attempted to elaborate.

Rita and Helen seemed jarred out of the moment, now each looking at him with quickly withering patience.

“And you said that was a crazy idea, right?” Helen’s eyes were narrowing.

“Well–“ Sybilus tried to say, but found he had nothing to follow it.

“Or you simply refused to comment?” Rita’s eyes were doing the same.

“I–.“ He tried and again, nothing. They weren’t waiting for an answer.

“And he didn’t _record_ you talking about this, did he?” Rita said.

The next time he opened his mouth a faint squeak emerged on its own.

“And you _didn’t_ act as suspiciously as you are _right now on the record, did you Sybilus_?” Helen asked, fully knowing the answer to her own question.

Sybilus only had a moment to stare at them, mind racing for any kind of explanation, before he dropped his head directly onto the table with a dull _thud_.

“Sybilus,” they groaned in unison.

“I’m sorry,” he moaned. “He just–he just–he had a microphone in my face! And his sister took my ap-my ap–my meeting time. And we weren’t talking about it at first or I would have left! And he asked to be my friend? And he was so _nice_ –! You know I’m a _terrible_ liar.”

He lifted up his head and saw that his friends were looking at him in equal parts horror and pity. Rita reached out and took one of his hands, Helen took the other.

They both squeezed his hands gently and stayed silent for a moment as a beaming Quinn brought a round of french fries with an arrangement of strange jewel-toned sauces over to the table (which they hadn’t ordered specifically but always wound up trying when they met here).

He didn’t say anything about Sybilus’s obvious despair. He simply pressed a quick kiss to Desmond’s temple and returned to the kitchen.

Helen and Rita only let go to reach from the fries.

Sybilus turned and saw Desmond was looking at him from behind the bar, in the middle of polishing a glass with a rag.

He didn’t look disappointed or furious like Sybilus had expected. He didn’t insult him or demand his expulsion from town as a safety measure like Sybilus had feared.

Instead, he just looked resigned. A man staring down the barrel of a gun that Sybilus might have just had a hand in loading.

_Exposure. And not just on a small town level. A podcast that could reach across the world._

Sybilus buried his face in his hands, not crying, but anguished all the same.

“Sybilus you aren’t a _terrible_ liar,” Helen offered with only a slight wince. “I mean you’ve been keeping as big a secret as any of us from the rest of the town ever since I met you. But maybe in the future you should–.“

“Avoid podcasters?” Rita finished for her.

“Avoid podcasters,” Helen agreed with a nod. “Would it help if I ticketed him for approaching you? Harassing a public servant or something. I’ve already gotten him for street sweeping a couple of times, and he hasn’t contested once.”

She took her fry and scooped up some of a strange jam-like sauce which she winced at after popping it into her mouth.

She held the small tureen of sauce up, shook her head at Desmond, and moved it to the other side of the table.

“That won’t help,” Sybilus sighed. “He’ll just keep digging.”

“But he was…nice? Before or after you almost got yourself on a podcast?” Rita bit into a fry and immediately began trying to cool it off inside her mouth once she realized it was too hot.

“Both,” Sybilus answered from his hands. “Apparently we’re f–f–friends now? He asked me to be his friend? And I did agree to record a slight–a small–a _tiny_ quote on the record in the end. So I will be _on_ said podcast. But only– _slightly_.” He finished lamely.

“Why did you agree to that?” Helen asked, around the next handful of fries she’d already fit in her mouth.

Sybilus took a single fry and considered it forlornly. “Well, I don’t know…I mean it would have been suspicious if I refused after what I said. And I didn’t want to be…rude?”

Only now, Sybilus noticed, did Rita and Helen look at him like he had lost his mind.

“Rude,” Helen repeated, disbelieving.

“To the heartless reporter,” Rita continued cooly.

“Well–I wouldn’t call him heart–heart–heart– _that_.”

If anything they looked even more concerned.

Sybilus shrugged helplessly with a sigh. He couldn’t explain it well. Not how it had felt to speak with someone unofficially who seemed to genuinely excited to meet him. Someone who started in a far off chair and moved closer to him to the point that their arms were nestled together on a single armrest without a single care in the world. Someone whose arms seemed equal parts broad and soft under a colorful hoodie.

He couldn’t explain how important it was to smile at someone who had smiled at him first, who hadn’t stopped smiling since he met him. Someone who hung off of Sybilus’s every word and wanted to hear him talk about _himself_ of all things.

How nice it had been, even if just for a little while.

_Oh, he’d been silent for too long._

He looked up from the fry, which he finally placed on a cocktail napkin and scooted towards the lamp on the table, to find his friend staring at him like they were witnessing some kind of miracle.

“…do you _like_ him?” Rita asked.

“What!” Sybilus squawked, incredulous in spite of the feeling of blood rushing to his face. “L–L-Like–I mean–why would I–I just m-me-met him! This isn’t _grade school_ , Rita. I thin–I thin–I _believe_ there are larger things at stake here than me thinking someone who wants to expose all our secrets is nice or pr–or pr–or _handsome_.”

A definitive silence hung over the table for but a moment, before Helen tentatively spoke with a grin blossoming across her face.

“She never said anything about you finding him _handsome_ , Sybilus.”

“Desmond we’re going to need some drinks over here!” Rita called out, her grin expanding to mirror Helen’s.

Sybilus was beside himself, and could only scream into his hands as his friends began to cackle. Only now, only with this pack, would he get harangued about a burgeoning crush while his world was ending.

* * *

They wound up drinking for several hours, which meant Sybilus had consumed exactly two drinks and had loosened his tie, while Helen and Rita put away at least six each and were having a raucous time.

At least (after the first two hours) they’d finally stopped teasing him about Paul and instead moved on to drunkenly hypothesizing about what was actually killed Ryan Reynolds (in a world where death by werewolf was fully off the table).

So far, Helen’s best guess that this was a publicity stunt. Rita had believed that Ryan had been replaced with an identical clone who was then murdered in his stead.

Sybilus, still slightly shaken from his afternoon, was instead looking around the bar with the sluggish energy of someone who had spent too long being careful only to just now realize that in the end it was all pointless.

He’d at least been convinced to move to the other side of the booth, so he was now crammed between Helen and Rita and being warmed by their proximity.

“I’d like to remind all of you that havin’ a _tab_ at the bar generally means that, at some point, that tab gets _paid off_ ,” Desmond sighed in response to Rita and Helen cheering for another round.

Rita and Helen booed him, while Sybilus immediately began to scrabble around his person for his wallet. _Where had he put it? It wasn’t in his jacket pocket, or his pants pocket, or his other pants pocket–_.

“Oh not _you_ , Sybilus. I couldn’t have been more clearly talking to those two heavy-hitters next to you.” Desmond said.

“We love you Desmond,” Helen cooed.

“I’ve got the most _amazing_ funeral planned for you, Desmond.” Rita grinned lazily, her teeth slipping down to hang below her lips in jagged points.

“Hey. Ease up now. This ain’t the time for being a sloppy drunk,” Desmond’s words were light, his tone that of any other bartender reminding a patron to mind her manners, but his eyes flashed to Rita and didn’t leave until she gulped and her fangs vanished from sight.

“It’s not the time to _be on a podcast_ either,” Sybilus groaned into his empty glass. “And yet–here I am.”

“Sibby, you’ve gotta let that go,” Helen sighed loudly. “It happened. We’ve all made at least _one_ mistake before. Up until now you’ve been the _perfect_ secret werewolf, if anything it proves you’re really on our level.”

“Don’t call me that,” Sybilus protested weakly. “I’ve got three parts to my name, at least use one whol–whol–use it right.”

“At least you weren’t caught with a duck in your mouth,” Rita cackled at the thought as she downed the final dregs of her drink. “I had to say I was picking a taxidermy seam with my teeth when Mary Jo saw me.”

“And at least you didn’t catch _the_ _Connor Creek Chronicle in your mouth_ like a certain mailman did when Cliff threw it back last week,” Helen said as she rolled out her neck.

“I forgot he did that!” Rita crowed, delighted.

“Oh, Odie,” Sybilus remembered the sight of their mailman clearing an eight-foot vertical leap like a dog going after a frisbee. It had nearly given him a heart attack.

“Besides, maybe something bigger will happen. And Mr. Paul Podcast will get swept off his nice feet by some other nice scintillating quote,” Rita said with her voice meandering from word to word like she didn’t exactly know where the sentence was going.

“Leaving room for _Sybilus_ to sweep him off his feet instead–!“ Helen’s voice just began to crescendo into a joyous roar, and Sybilus was about to groan in protest, when the door to The Dead Canary burst open and Sheriff Madison Reynolds swept in with the cold of night nipping at her heels.

The joyous atmosphere popped like a bubble with her cry.

“Doctor Edwards, you’ve gotta come with me right now!”

The doctor in person snorted questioningly, his hair and face sticky, as he awoke and immediately leapt to his feet.

“What’s happened?” Helen asked, to her credit only stumbling slightly as she leapt to her feet.

Sheriff Reynolds was gaunt and pale in the doorway, her hands were shaking something awful, and she looked like she was going to keel over at any moment. “There’s been another attack.”

Sybilus felt his blood go cold and the grip on his glass tighten, he could feel Rita freeze next to him.

“Who’s hurt?” Desmond asked, with both hands planted firmly on the bar and his eyes stormy.

“Whatever–whoever it was, they hit Prism’s shop. She’s…they killed her.” Sheriff Reynolds’s voice shook. “And they _fucked_ Paul up good too.”

The glass in Sybilus’s hands shattered.

If Sheriff Reynolds noticed she didn’t take the time to care. “I’m sorry, I can’t say more. Doctor Edwards we gotta go right now.”

And for a man who had been entirely comatose five seconds ago Dr. Henry Edwards grabbed his medical bag and hurried after her looking as serious as any other doctor in the medical profession.

And they were off into the night, leaving the door to hang wide open behind them.

Desmond sighed, and slowly moved out from behind the bar to clear away the bowl of soup from in front of Dr. Edwards’s usual chair.

“Sybilus,” Rita was saying, softly, but it didn’t seem register. “Sybilus, your _hands_.”

He didn’t feel drunk anymore, in fact he felt quite cold. Someone really should close the door.

“Sybilus, let go.” Rita took Sybilus’s hands in her own gloved ones, and gently pried his fingers apart. Glass clattered to the table. His skin was tough enough, none stuck out from his palms, so that meant the cuts were at least surface level.

Helen was pinching between her eyes, stricken, and faintly Sybilus realized that they were all surely doomed.

“I–I–I’m so sorry about the glass, Desmond.” Sybilus heard someone who sounded like exactly himself speak, rather calmly all things considered. “I can pay for a replacement.” That person reached into his other jacket pocket and finally fished out his wallet.

“Don’t worry about that,” was all Desmond said before Olivia swept into the bar and swiftly shut the door behind her.

Her eyes were dark, her manner stern, as she took them all in. She and Desmond looked at each other for only a moment, before she turned to the others.

“Come on,” she said before turning to walk out.

They looked to Desmond.

“Go see. They’ll be needing you at the scene soon enough Rita. Sybilus, Helen, you come right back though. Tell Olivia to go find Odie.”

Helen nodded and walked out after Olivia, suddenly seeming entirely sober. Rita followed behind, leaving Sybilus to trail after her numbly.

Desmond stopped him, and pressed a clean cloth napkin into his hands. It would be a shame to stain it with–.

_Oh, right, his hands were bleeding._

“Accidents happen, Sybilus. Best thing we can do is keep moving forward.”

His mouth must have fallen open, because Sybilus had no idea what to do with it except click his jaw shut as he nodded brusquely.

“Check the scent if you can,” Desmond said. “ _Without_ being noticed. If there’s something we ain’t catchin’ in all this, that’ll give it away.”

Sybilus locked eyes with him, nodded, tried for a slight (if unsure) smile, and stepped out into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TFW you get flustered by a cute guy and immediately broadcast the fact that you are a werewolf and he is a reporter and your friends proceed to *make fun of you* about it.
> 
> And then he immediately gets attacked by a werewolf and you feel all sorts of ways.
> 
> I hope this fic continues to be something you enjoy. And I would love to rave about Sybilus in the comments with anyone who would like to do so.


	3. As Long as There's Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long night but before what is sure to be a doomed town council meeting, Sybilus seeks out advice (and free samples) from everyone's favorite butcher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: oh yes we're finally getting to that good old gay longing.
> 
> Also me: I do believe it is time to talk to Vern about food and fear for 6,000 words.
> 
> Look I didn't plan to write this, but I realized that Vern and Odie haven't been represented yet and knew I needed to fix this.
> 
> I realized that we hadn't spent nearly enough time talking to Vern and a deep want in my heart opened up until I wrote this.
> 
> Shout out to the inherent tenderness of feeding people (and Vern's puns which made me so happy).

Sybilus stood outside of Vern’s butcher shop and tapped his foot against the creaky wooden porch, feeling strangely like he had other places to be even though the thought of continuing on with his day sat in his stomach like a loadstone.

He knew, logically, that he had nothing to be wary of.

A bit of morning shopping was good. Healthy, even. The store would be quieter, the selection of meats and produce untouched, and there hopefully wouldn’t be any other shoppers to direct himself around.

And hopefully nobody would notice their town’s only banker lurking outside of the butcher’s shop with a sour feeling in his stomach and a look of complete dread on his face.

 _But even if someone did notice him, surely they wouldn’t think anything strange about his behavior._ Or at least that was what he kept telling himself as he attempted to not come apart at the seams.

After all, it wasn’t like the average Connor Creek citizen knew that Sybilus _typically_ picked up his orders from Vern on Sunday evenings.

He did so just after his shift, so as to maximize freshness of the meat through the coming week (and permitting him to make the journey from the bank to the butcher’s to his home in a single easy walk on the calmest evening of his week).

But surely nobody paid attention to that sort of thing.

_Or, at least, nobody had before all of this began. They’d most likely be paying more attention now, he’d have to be more careful._

Surely nobody knew of his already stocked fridge from his most recent trip to see Vern– _he was sure he’d locked his house when he’d left (and had checked the door four times after doing so just in case he’d made a mistake) so no-one would have seen inside otherwise–unless they looked through the windows_ –which would reveal his trip to be more than a simple grocery visit.

But there was simply no way for anyone to know that.

And yet he’d remained almost too vigilant for his own good on the walk over, flinching at shadows and keeping his head down as the light of the sun just began to illuminate the faint mist of the morning.

He knew without checking his watch that it was exactly ten minutes before Vern was going to come down from his small apartment above the shop (in a clean white shirt, colorful tie, and his apron) to unlock the door.

It was a ludicrous time for Sybilus to be perusing the pork chops or bargaining over beef, and and yet here he stood dressed for a day he would never be prepared for.

The day of the town council meeting had finally come, scheduled well in advance to present the two official candidates before the town, and Sybilus could only feel the frantic dismay of a man who had been thwarted in spite of his best efforts. He’d had the day circled in red on his calendar for months, and had been feeling its approach like the onset of a full moon.

And now that Ryan Reynolds was dead what had begun as terror had now oozed into a feeling of absolute failure.

He had always dreaded the arrival of the election, hyper-aware of the fact that for all of his “man on the inside” work the choice would inevitably come down to the people of Connor Creek.

He only had one vote as to whether it would be Ryan Reynolds or Truman Hensley that was going to be swaying their democratic process from now on, and as proud as he was of it he was no longer sure the sway it could hold.

But today, with Ryan Reynolds being buried in his family plot as quickly as possible according to Rita and only one inevitable choice, Sybilus was positively beside himself.

It wasn’t that Truman hadn’t polite to him during brief conversations. She actually took the time to listen to him more often than not and seemed to at least know a few things about business. But he knew that her appointment would remove one of the few obstacles keeping Miner Mole’s chokehold on the town at bay.

And the attack the night before had only worsened the sense that unstoppable things had been put into motion.

He knew in theory that he _should_ be opening the bank early to help anyone who desperately needed it before he’d have to duck out to serve on the council.

But instead he was here, growing more and more tempted to rap gently on the glass. Or to find the key he knew Vern kept hidden under the porch. Or to start calling Vern’s name quite loudly. However, he didn’t do any of those things. He could only wait, politely, for Vern to appear.

Because truly this felt like the only place to go. Because Desmond was probably asleep and Sybilus was probably going to lose his mind before he woke him.

Because he couldn’t stay home. That _would_ be suspicious.

The ridiculousness of it looped over and over again in his head.

_There is a meeting to declare the end of a hard-fought electoral process that ended in a murder the day after the town psychic is murdered in the night and one of the two newly-arrived outsiders has to be rushed to the hospital. One of the six remaining town council members is locked in his house having a panic attack. And he’s a werewolf._

_It sounded like a joke._

_A bad one._

But he wouldn’t have stayed home even if it had been the most normal thing in the world either. Because all he’d managed to do that night, after futilely shuffling home from The Dead Canary with little to offer in the way of an investigation, was pace a hole into his carpet and accidentally rip down the curtains at his bedside window when he got startled by the sudden flight of an owl.

The fact that he’d been meaning to replace said curtains was the only comfort he’d found that night as he’d positioned himself to gaze mutely out the window into the dark and bristling tree-cover.

He wasn’t sure what kind of vigil he had been keeping at his window.

Perhaps he was waiting to see if Prism’s killer would strike again.

Perhaps he was waiting for the figure of Artemis Schue-Horyn to come screaming through the night to accuse him of being a werewolf and demand to know what had happened to her brother.

Perhaps he was just too afraid to fall asleep. The thought of the coming election, the part he would have to play in it, and Paul’s eager voice in the waiting room (overjoyed to have uncovered a werewolf conspiracy that had almost killed him tonight) lurked just behind his eyes if he even thought about closing them.

By the time morning had made its haphazard approach he was left sitting on top of his blankets in yesterday’s clothes convinced that sleep was a heartfelt illusion. He had blearily looked around his empty room, strangely calm under the silence of the morning, he knew he had two options.

Stay in and potentially drive himself mad through inaction (and appear immediately suspicious), or begin his day in earnest.

But as he’d walked down Main Street, listening to the faint calling of birds, he’d turned not towards the bank, but the butcher’s shop.

He’d meant collapse behind his desk at the bank after wrestling with the haggard coffeemaker and maybe help people with their finances until he had to fling himself into the fray of the town council.

But instead he was here.

And he couldn’t, on his own life, understand why.

Or at least he couldn’t until he saw Vern’s face appear in the window on his door (seven minutes ahead of schedule) with a smile like the slow roll of thunder gracing his face.

He opened the door without a word, and allowed Sybilus to step inside. 

* * *

“And this here’s Vern,” Desmond had said as the warm afternoon sun swept through the butcher’s shop and Sybilus took in the sight of a broad and dark haired man in pristine clothes with his palms dripping with bright red ground beef.

“Vern Marrow. Nice to… _meat_ you,” Vern had said with what could only be described as a wolfish grin on his face, waving his hands slightly to accentuate the joke.

Sybilus had been in town for two about days, most of which he had spent attempting to truly accept that his life could completely change with such little fanfare. His first few hours in town had been spent sitting, shell-shocked, on his bed looking around the hotel room.

But slowly, kindly, Desmond had begun to invite him to broaden his horizons.

It had been a process of minuscule and nervous steps (after which he holed up in his room and checked the time, listening to the faint ticking of his pocket watch and trying to match his breathing to a slower tempo).

Initially he only knew to go as far as the road outside of town that lead to The Dead Canary where he had shuffled (shirking other gazes with his heart racing) into town.

But now his horizons had grown to include the familiar antiquary of his room where he awoke in relative bliss and managed to hang up his single extra shirt, the bar of The Dead Canary where Desmond or Quinn frequently joined him for meals, and the front porch of The Dead Canary where he was once convinced by Quinn to sit and try a new smoothie recipe in the sun (he’d had to hurry back into the safety of the inn after about ten minutes as he felt townspeople begin to stare at him, but it felt monumental at the time).

But today Desmond had decided he needed to go a little farther than that.

Desmond had taken it upon himself to begin general introductions between Sybilus and the few others like them in town, and show him a few of the highlights for the werewolves of Connor Creek.

“It’s more about lettin’ people see you out and about than anything else.” Desmond had explained over heaping plates of steak and eggs earlier that day. “I’m sure you’ll grow to explore on your own once you’re ready, but I’m afraid folks here won’t be as patient as you’d like. So they’ve gotta see you doin’ regular things. Otherwise they’ll start bargin’ in here trying to get a look at you.”

He’d chuckled slightly, but the thought of someone coming into the bar to see him, to have them know that he was there and begin to notice his strange circumstances made him feel slightly ill.

But he had been taken to the ammunition shop and tried very hard not to touch anything or seem too rude as he struggled through a conversation with Olivia Tompkins.

Surrounded by bullets and eventually interrupted when Riley Kirkland burst through the door spitting with rage about Olivia’s new buyer’s policy while handing her a packed lunch, Sybilus had begun to feel quietly overwhelmed.

A feeling that had frozen in his chest when Desmond had brought him into the butcher’s shop.

Vern Marrow absolutely loomed over Sybilus, standing even taller than Desmond, and still maintained something monstrous and strange in the motion of his body. There was a power to his frame, a suddenness to his movements that was a hair shy of unnatural.

He was the most obvious looking not transformed werwolf Sybilus had ever seen, and he wore a bowtie covered in blue spots. It was not that he radiated with power like Desmond, but he simply oozed with strangeness.

He also had extended a single hand for Sybilus to shake, with ropey strands of hamburger still dangling between his fingertips dripping lightly onto the counter.

Sybilus had looked on, unsure of what to do with his hands or how to respond to his introduction, and found that an introduction could not make its way out of his mouth as he opened it. He simply cringed in confusion.

Vern was apparently enthused with this response, because he whipped his hand back with a laugh that could only be called a _guffaw_ , the likes of which Sybilus had never heard before.

It was a full belly laugh, one that brought attention to the straight and perfect gleam of his strong white teeth. A laugh that shook his monumental frame and had him slapping the handfuls of beef down on the counter with wet _thwacks_ to wrap his long arms around his ribs and simply enjoy himself for a moment.

Sybilus looked to Desmond, who was looking between the two of them cooly like this was how introductions in Connor Creek always went.

Vern wiped a tear from his eye.

“Oh, that was _too_ good. Why I haven’t had a good old chuckle like that in ages. Dearest Desmond, who is this strapping fellow you’ve brought to see me today?”

Sybilus, who had never once in his entire life been called _strapping_ , felt a bashful warmth bubble in his stomach.

“He’s Sybilus Silver,” Desmond leaned against the counter while Vern leaned in as if he were becoming privy to some kind of grand secret. “New in town, might be stayin’ a while if it suits him. We’re making the rounds.”

“You’ve already been to see Dear Olivia then, I take it?” Vern eagerly questioned just as Sybilus surprisingly found himself opening his mouth.

“The second,” Sybilus (as if using that warmth to bolster himself) chimed in. It still sounded strangled and small, just as most of his conversations in town had, but even he was surprised with himself.

Both heads turned slightly to look at him, Desmond with a bemused look and Vern with an ecstatic one. Sybilus coughed, attempting to clear his throat.

“Syb–Syb–Sybilus Silver _the Second_ ,” he said with a slight increase in volume. And he extended his own hand towards Vern (whose palms were tinged a slight red stain).

Vern gave him one of those handshakes that simultaneously crushed all of the bones in his hand but also made him feel like he had just passed some kind of test and now possessed Vern’s loyalty until the end of days.

“Sybilus Silver the Second,” Vern had repeated, his voice rolling and shining the parts of his name like a rock tumbler. “It is a right pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

It was an oddly beautiful sight. A werewolf in a blue-speckled bowtie who could probably crack bones between his teeth and suck out their marrow as quick as thinking grinning at the sight of him.

“Vern keeps all of us fed ‘round these parts. No need to hunt when food is plentiful. He’s the only reason Quinn can afford to experiment with seasoning as much as he does.” Desmond traced a hand over the glass counter, under which were rows upon rows of perfectly carved cuts of meat.

“Why that’s nothing but an old chum discount,” Vern scoffed, waving his hand as if to dismiss the thought. But he leaned closer to Sybilus and lowered his voice as if bringing him into a loop. “But I’m happy to apply it to new chums as well.”

Sybilus could only let out a breathless laugh at the thought of having already somehow found a friend in someone like Vern. Someone impressive and domineering and luminous in his glee.

“We’re still gettin’ Sybilus acclimated to life here in town, so I’ll be relyin’ on your expertise, Vern, to help smooth things along. Put anything he needs on my tab.”

Again, Vern scoffed. “Now, Dear Desmond, you know that helping out new arrivals is something I do for free. It’s not like I’m charging an arm and a leg here!” He quickly turned to Sybilus, expectant.

And Sybilus laughed long and hard for the first time in what felt like months.And this time when Sybilus laughed, Vern laughed with him.

“Switching to a more steady intake of protein through the day in the first few weeks will make the transition to a Connor wolf easier,” Vern said when he finally regained his breath. “So be sure to come by soon so we can do a personal consultation to get you a diet plan set up.”

Sybilus found himself nodding along, a general ease beginning to settle around his shoulders and a genuine smile stuck on his face.

And perhaps it was this release of tension that permitted his body to remind him that he was somehow starving again, his stomach letting out a growl at the sight of the slabs of meat gleaming perfectly under the lights of the shop.

“My–My apologies–,” he began to say before Vern pointed at him with sudden sternness.

“Now, Sybilus, you should never apologize for being _hungry_. Why the two of you have been standing here listening to me flap my gums all this time and I haven’t even offered you something to snack on. If anything it proves you’re still alive, _and_ it gives me an opportunity to _impress_.”

Vern turned and was suddenly snapping black gloves onto his hands, plucking gleaming knives from a woodblock, fanning out long ribbons of some thick pink ham, and shaving pieces of them away with the ease of a well-trained seamstress.

He then took thick wooden toothpicks and began to fold the ham, now cut so thinly that light could almost shine through it perfectly, around them.

For one moment it was nothing but ham on a stick, and in the next Vern was holding two roses made of ham with sprigs of rosemary wrapped between the layers of meat like leaves.

“Free sample. Rosemary and garlic prosciutto, just arrived today special from that little market up north.”

“Why thank you Vern,” Desmond said, genuinely touched.

“Yes, thank you for the flower–er–food–er– _gift_.” Sybilus stumbled through his thoughts as he reached out and took the toothpick.

“Think nothing of it,” Vern said. “But be sure to stop by the shop on Friday evenings. I like to have charcuterie board seminars and we’d always welcome a new face.” He grinned once more, looking like he was genuinely glad that Sybilus had passed into his shop, and returned to forming his hamburger patties.

Sybilus had looked down on the little flower of carefully woven ham as Desmond had recommended they perhaps take a hike out to the silver deposits if he felt up to it(and and he had felt something strange.

_He felt full._

In that moment he realized that there had been a growing hunger in his gut since he had arrived at Connor Creek. Not a physical hunger, but an absence of something.

Perhaps it had been born watching Desmond swipe his thumb across Quinn’s knuckles (and over their simple wedding bands) when he traded gleaming amber drinks for plates of comfort food, or from peering out of the lacy curtains of his room to see bird watching clubs gathering on the thoroughfare, or simply the ease with which those in Connor Creek simply _were_ with other people.

A loneliness, or a separation, that had lingered deep within Sybilus did not vanish entirely in that moment, gazing down at a well-sculpted free sample. But it did relinquish its grip on him, slipping slightly, to let more of the light in.

And then the sample happened to be absolutely delicious as well.

* * *

Vern was still preparing his stock on the day of the town council, a knife was laid out across the counter in the process of slicing bright bell peppers which (if Sybilus had to make an educated guess based on the various wooden skewers piled next to a display plate) would be layered into kebabs.

Vern’s kebabs were a thing of beauty, and he only brought them out when he was worried about something.

“I thought that might have been you lingering out on my porch there, Sweet Sybilus. I’m most overjoyed to see I was not mis–steak–en.What has brought you to my doorstep this fine morning?”

For all of his puns and his general size, Vern truly was an artisan when it came to the fine details of his work.

The grace with which he sailed back behind the counter, selected an emerald green pepper, and was suddenly sweeping the stalk and seeds out of it with a knife was truly admirable.

It was like watching a painter, except Vern never seemed to need to wait for inspiration to strike.

When nary a seed remained in the peppers he cleaved in half length-wise before going on to cut the halves into quarters. Finally those quarters were once again halved, leaving shining shards of green peppers to be skewered. And just as quickly he soon had a mountain of them. He then moved to do the same to peppers in shades of fire-engine red and vibrant orange.

For a long while Sybilus could only watch the machine-like precision with which he diced peppers and sliced gleaming purple onions into scale-like chips.

It was easier to imagine that he had nothing to fear in his day while chewing at his bottom lip and watching Vern slice produce into manageable chunks.

It could also be said of Vern that, as much as he loved to chat over his counter, he was also a master of comfortable silence. He let it linger and decant like an aged wine (which Sybilus knew he had tucked away in the back room if a customer were to ask for a pairing recommendation).

But he also knew how to get right to the bottom of things, like a cleaver slicing through bone, after the silence had stayed too long.

“There’s that town council meeting today, right?”

“Oh– _yes_ –I suppose–I suppose there is.” Sybilus, jarred from the momentary peace, said.

“Well now, I plumb forgot about it. I’ve a delivery coming soon that I’ll have to personally sign for, so I regret to inform you Sybilus that I won’t be in attendance. I most humbly apologize.” Vern apologized with the peace of a man without regrets.

“That’s perfectly alright, what with the dread–the excitement–the _proceedings_ I doubt we will require much of an audience. We all know…what’s to happen to–today.”

Vern deposited his knife into the sink and pulled a different one from the block, even going so far as to sharpen it thoughtfully. “Well, I’ve been thinking, it might seem that way. But who knows, maybe things still have time to change.”

The silence returned with Sybilus attempting to decipher his own reaction to Vern’s optimism. One part of him desperately wished for a way to stall the proceedings and believed that someone had to have a plan, the other part that had been dragged to this point of his life in spite of his best efforts didn’t feel capable of holding out hope anymore.

In the end, he had nothing to say.

“But, that’s not the only thing I’ve been thinking on. That was quite the night last night,” Vern said casually as he turned to unroll a thick slab of sirloin from its wrapping of brown butcher’s paper.

“I–I suppose it was,” Sybilus said faintly. He found himself grabbing his ring and twisting it about his finger, round and round. It only somewhat helped him regain a sense of control.

“I was up late, you know.” Vern selected a butcher’s knife with patient ease. He used it to gesture towards the window through the door. “Had a new shipment of produce to put away, and you know me I can’t sleep till a job’s done. I didn’t hear a single peep head Prism’s way, but I heard all the noise. Like a damn tornado tore through the place. Ran out with the biggest cleaver I could find. First man on the scene.”

“ _Oh_.” Sybilus said, sounding exactly like a man who knew what he was being told but had to pretend he didn’t if anyone asked.

“How–How did it–I mean, if you’re permitted to discuss it–of course–how did it look?”

“It was a bloodbath,” Vern said. Plainly and simply, and he swung the knife down into the tenderloin. “Whole shop torn up, crystals and furniture strewn all about. And Prism, whatever got to her it didn’t leave much behind that was recognizable. But I found Paul, his back all torn up, and began hollering for the Sheriff.”

“W–W–Would you have a guess as to…what–who– _what_ did it?” Sybilus peered over his glasses and met Vern’s eyes.

The moment was heavy with unsaid things, questions of what kind of monster they could possibly be dealing with. Vern’s diagnosis as to whether or not they had to begin looking into their own numbers.

“Well, I couldn’t say for sure, of course.” Vern huffed out a great sigh. “Seeing as I, _a relatively normal man_ , arrived far too late at the scene to catch anyone in the act, as I told the sheriff.” He began to slice into the steak once more.

The swift and sturdy _thock_ of the knife against the cutting board was strangely comforting, though that didn’t keep Sybilus from flinching slightly at the sound.

“But if you were to have gotten some kind of _dog_ on the scene,” he looked up darkly and didn’t blink. “With a predilection for meat such as mine,” he said as he lightly gestured to the side of his nose with his knife. “I think that, if that dog could talk, it would tell you that under the smell of all that blood was the scent of something _not quite human_.”

Sybilus felt a chill run down his spine at the thought.

“Something unfamiliar too,” Vern mused. “A smell like a storm. Seems like something new has blown into town. Or someone.”

“But that wouldn’t make any sen–any sen–that can’t be. The only new people to come to town recently are the–the–.” He trailed off, almost guiltily. “And it can't be _them_ , not with–with everything that’s– _that’s happened_.”

“Or maybe somebody who’s been in town for a while only just now made their move,” Vern offered, sliding the now neatly diced sirloin into a pile. “Mr. Schue-Horyn’s lucky to be alive, or at least that’s the word around town. Now if you ask me, I’m not so sure about that.”

Sybilus froze. “Wh–Wha–What do you mean?”

“I mean we both know that the kind of thing that did this wasn’t likely to leave a man alive _on accident_ ,” Vern said. He reached for a wooden dowel and sliding it through a chunk of meat. “And if it did, well that means things are about to get a bit more… _hairy_ for Mr. Schue-Horyn.”

“You–you think he’s–." Sybilus suddenly felt lightheaded, and trailed off.

But it was good that he did.

Because at the same time the bell above the door chimed as Jewel Irons skipped into the butcher’s shop.

“–and it’d be about eleven dollars even for each of these here kabobs, now Sybilus, though I do still have a bit of assembling to do. But of course, if you aren’t wanting to wait, we have gotten a rather nice display of pork chops today–why good morning young Ms. Irons.” Vern cooly rattled as if this had been a long-winded conversation that he was only just being interrupted in.

“Of–Of course,” Sybilus murmured softly (mostly to himself) as he forced himself to bend slightly at the waist to peer at the slabs of meat under the counter. It felt as though his body were moving slower than usual, everything building and pressing in on him at once. He did his best to appear utterly engrossed in the meat, even though Jewel Irons was clearly not paying him any mind as she swept in front of him.

“Mr. Marrow, my mom said I needed to ask you for…for half a pound of sausages for breakfast. My daddy tossed ‘em out this morning without asking first and she says he’s gonna need his strength for the big town meeting today.”

She deposited a wrinkled twenty dollar bill and four nickels onto the counter. 

Sybilus, fully knowing Vern’s sausage pricing, faintly wondered if the youngest Irons had a genuine understanding of how payment for goods and services worked.

“Why of course, Ms. Irons.” Vern grinned at her and moved to collect long ropes of sausages which he then placed on a scale. “Why, a breakfast without sausage is the _wurst_ thing I can imagine.”

Sybilus barked out a terse laugh because it was all he could think to do, which caused Jewel to finally turn and notice that he was standing just next to her.

“Excuse me, Mr. Banker Man, I need to place my order.”

“Oh–of–of course Ms. Ir–“ he began to say but she had already turned back to Vern who was wrapping up the sausages. In a way it was an exact replica of every conversation Sybilus had ever tried to have with Cliff Irons.

“Today is _very_ important, my momma says.” Jewel went on as if Sybilus was not there.

“Oh? And why’s that?” Vern asked amicably, quickly cutting a sheath of white paper to wrap up the sausages.

“She says today’s the day our lives change! Once Ms. Hensley gets elected we’ll finally be set so I can head back to school.”

Sybilus felt the cool spike of dread in his stomach return. He refused to let himself turn to look at the placid face of the teenager next to him. How could he explain to this teenager that what she was excited about was inevitably going to destroy his life?

Why was he feeling a sudden onslaught of guilt at the thought of opposing Truman Hensley in spite of everything he knew to be riding on this?

Even though Miner Mole was a heartless corporation that was clearly exploiting the entire Irons family, the sight of this girl’s unswayable faith in it was enough to make him feel sick to his stomach.

He was left there, dangling, and uncertain as Vern finished up Jewel’s order.

“Well, it was mighty kind of you to come and see me on this fine day Ms. Irons, and I wish you and your family only the best.”

Jewel smiled proudly as Vern handed her back her change, and despite almost running off with the package still sitting on the counter, soon she was off hurrying home.

Vern had been waving amicably with a personable smile, which slipped from his face as the door shut. “She’s a nice child, if a bit slow on the uptake,” Vern said with a sigh.

Sybilus nodded wordlessly, focusing on trying to unwind the tension from his shoulders and back so that he could straighten up. It was a slow moving process, involving deep breathing and continuously pushing his glasses up his nose as they continued to slide back down.

“This is going to be a terrible day,” Sybilus finally sighed as he straightened up.

“Probably.” Vern had returned to the smooth process of assembling kabobs. Layer upon layer of meat, peppers, onions, and even the occasional mushroom when the fancy struck him were compiled. “But in our lifestyle, Sybilus, there can be a lot of terrible days, I'm afraid it comes with the territory.”

Sybilus nodded sullenly.

“But, you should know that, I think, without you or Rita…things would have gotten worse well before now.”

“Wh–Wh–Wh– _What_?” Sybilus said, startled out of his despondency.

“I mean think about it like this. How many times have you petitioned Desmond to step up and join the council? Or for him to take on some kind of responsibility in town?”

“Desmond’s already taking–trying– _doing_ so much for us though–“ Sybilus tried to interrupt before Vern held up a hand.

“I know the answer to that question, because I’ve been here longer than you’d think. Desmond’s not a man of action, and he’d prefer to lean back and let the world handle itself before he steps in. And me? I’m just a butcher. I’m an old dog, Sybilus, and there’s not much else I want from the world any more except to take care of my own. But you? You saw things were going wrong and you stepped up. You’re still trying to protect everyone. And without all of your efforts, well…our gooses might already have been cooked...and served with sage and onion dressing.”

Sybilus gazed helplessly up at Vern who was looking at him with a sense of pride he normally only reserved for Desmond.

“But now–now that the election’s _here_ , without someone to run against Truman–maybe–maybe even if there was someone to run against her–it could all be for nothing! I m–m–mean look at what’s happened! Two de–de–de– _dead_. One injured. We have _no_ idea wh–who’s behind it. The race is all but lost, and all the while Miner Mole is sw–swimming in _silver_. I’ve been trying so _hard_ to keep everything together and _I can’t_ – _I can’t_ – _I can’t_ watch it all fall apart Vern I just _can’t_.”

His voice had been steadily increasing in volume, and Sybilus felt himself begin to shake as it all came pouring out.

_He didn’t want to fail. Not now. Not after everything he’d done. He didn’t want anyone else to get hurt._

It was the feeling of Vern’s broad hand on his shoulder that let something inside of Sybilus that had been straining and aching since yesterday settle itself down. Someone else taking up part of the burden to let him stop struggling for just a moment.

“You can’t fix the whole world on your own, Sybilus Silver the Second.” Vern said, speaking as if it were a lesson he’d learned long enough ago for it to have sank deep into his bones. “No matter how much you’d like to. But you’re still going to try, I can tell. You’ll go to that meeting and try to lead this town where it’s right, and we’ll endure. As long as there’s food, we’ll endure.”

Sybilus blinked at Vern for a moment, but finally nodded. “Tha–Tha–That’s one way to think of it, I suppose.”

“And you can’t do all of that on an empty stomach,” Vern reached a long arm across the counter and handed Sybilus a kabob ladened with more meat than strictly necessary.

Sybilus took it with a winded smile, and his stomach growled.

“You didn’t have breakfast today, did you?” Vern had narrowed his eyes appraisingly and nothing could escape him when he looked like that.

“I–there was–I was somewhat….distracted.” Sybilus muttered guiltily around the first chunk of sirloin.

“Now Sybilus, what have we said about you skipping meals?” Vern sounded genuinely offended. “There was–were–a great many–a great _deal_ of factors to be considered on this _particular_ morning, Vern I–.” Sybilus sighed tiredly and gave in.

He made a show of finishing the kabob under Vern’s watchful eye.

Vern then immediately moved to hand him another, and glowered when Sybilus moved to refuse. He glowered even more when Sybilus went to reach for his wallet.

Only when he’d finished the second one, the taste of iron and peppers lingering in his mouth, did he think to ask.

“Actually, Vern, there is one thing–about P–P–Paul. And his… _situation_. If I paid in advance–would you mind delivering a few extra cuts to The Dead–Dead Canary? If he’s–if he’s–if what you th– _think_ happened– _happened_ , Quinn will be needing them.” Sybilus pulled a few bills from his wallet and passed them to Vern who nodded.

“Why, Sybilus, I’m liking the _cut_ of your jib.” Vern grinned with teeth that were suddenly sharper than they were at the beginning of the conversation. “I’d be happy to help with that.”

The sound of a bell rang out across the square.

“The meeting will be starting soon,” Vern commented.

“I’ll–I'll have to go.” Sybilus said, placing the two empty toothpicks into a waiting trashcan.

Vern reached out and clasped his hand with a hearty clap. “You be careful out in front of the wolves Sweet Sybilus.”

“I always am.”

“But don’t forget how you got there. You managed something quite _rare_ here, and there isn’t anyone I’d trust more to be looking out for me up in that seat.” He squeezed Sybilus’s hand and Sybilus, suddenly flowing with confidence, squeezed back as hard as he could.

And when he let go Vern shook his hand like it _might_ have hurt.

“I’ll–I’ll make sure things are _well done_ ,” Sybilus couldn’t help the smile at his own ridiculous pun, and it was with Vern’s roaring laughter at his back that he stepped out to the town meeting.

His stomach still roiled, and he could feel a faint tremor in his legs, but the taste of peppers and the feeling of his haphazard breakfast settling in his stomach made it far easier to ascend the stage and smile at those he passed before taking his chair.

He looked out over the crowd that was currently just Odie doing crunches amidst a sea of empty chairs, and took a steadying breath.

_We’ll endure._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for indulging me in reading this. What I've learned is that everyone should have an emotional support butcher.
> 
> As soon as Vern said "Dear Olivia" in his introduction I knew that he was going to be so god damn kind and caring while also being one of the biggest weirdos in a pretty weird town.
> 
> I hope this chapter was as fun for you as it was for me to write.
> 
> And hey I mean it's still pretty gay to send steaks to the guy you like to make sure he eats well if he turns out to be a werewolf, right?


	4. A Game of Tag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stress of the electoral process takes it toll (as does the exhaustion) and Sybilus finds himself desperately in need of some kind of peace.
> 
> Luckily, it is the job of the postman to bring people what they need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only have two words for this chapter, which should be said with the utmost fondness and pride (and then repeated with great mourning).
> 
> *Odie Doty*

Following the emotional whirlwind that was the town council meeting, Sybilus numbly shuffled back to his house and promptly fell asleep for the rest of the day against his will.

Maybe it _had_ been a bad idea to go into an incredibly stressful governmental scenario without as much as a wink of sleep the night before. Maybe it wasn’t entirely healthy, the schedule he’d been keeping where he primarily ran on stress and good intentions.

Maybe he hadn’t been taking the _best_ care of himself, but that kind of thing was common enough when he was a man on the inside who didn’t really know what to do once he got there.

So, unsurprisingly, he passed out.

He did so in his singular armchair, half-way through a quickly made lunch. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He really had _meant_ to head to the bank, or to call one of the Irons and jam himself into Silas Toren’s schedule again, or to somehow figure out a way to ensure Sheriff Reynolds’s victory in the election that he was _sure_ existed if he just gave it enough thought.

But instead he went home, feeling emotionally winded from declaring Truman victorious only to have Artemis Schue-Horyn of all people make an impassioned plea before the people that convinced Madison Reynolds to run in the quickest election turn around he had ever seen.

He’d been briefly explaining the proceedings that would occur tomorrow to a resolute Madison and a glowering Truman when he’d begun to feel exhaustion drying out his eyes and making him yawn between every three or so words.

_The thought of the caucusing was making him want to crawl under a rock, as was the act of tallying a new vote, but there was nothing else to be done really._

Madison had thanked him with a smile as he shook her hand and welcomed her to the race. Truman looked like she was ready to rip his head off as he did the same with her, but still shook his hand and curtly thanked him for his _help_.

Only once the hall was emptied of its few occupants did Rita turn to Sybilus to crack some kind of joke, take a single look at his face (and a spine-cracking yawn he had been in the middle of), and instead tell him to go home and get some sleep.

And so home he went, made a half-hearted attempt to form some kind of plan, and fell into a deep sleep born of utter exhaustion and the slightest reprieve in the constant fear he’d been living in.

_Really now that he thought about it, he understood why he was tired._

He awoke just as the sun sank below the horizon, his house warm and dark and still around him.

It was a nap turned small coma that had left him with a stiff crick in his next, wrinkles decorating his work shirt, a divot on the bridge of his nose from falling asleep with his glasses still on, and a red mark on his face from here he pressed it into his chair.

He might have even drooled a little.

Sybilus was simultaneously still exhausted and the most well-rested he had been in weeks. A warm stillness seemed to coat his body as he stretched his arms and decided to continue on with his night.

He reached over, clicked on the lamp next to his chair, and grinned sleepily at the sight of the minuscule bird skeleton affixed to its base. Rita had told him that she had named the skeleton Nickel.

Nickel and the whole lamp had been a gift from Rita at his last birthday, and the sight of it evoked the memory of a birthday party in a cabin outside of town. God, how long ago it seemed now. A time when he could steal out of his home under cover of darkness for something as simple as a party.

It was to the blurry memory of long-gone music and the faint image of a group of people who had come together for _him_ that he heaved himself out of the chair and carried the now wilted remains of his lunch to the kitchen.

He hummed that nameless song as he placed his bowl in the sink, old big band music that had been crackling with static on a record player that Vern still tended with oil cloths and precision.

Slowly he went about undoing his tie, rolling out his neck, and putting his suit jacket (which had simply been tossed over the back of his chair in his shuffle home) on a hanger in his closet.

Sybilus considered taking a shower, making some coffee, and pulling out the week’s paper to clip out the coupons in his chair until he’d gently find his way back to sleep. Maybe this time he’d manage some real rest before the town council meeting.

It seemed like a gift, a single moment of stillness.

Or at least he would have, if there hadn’t been a knock at his door.

He certainly would have remained in that moment of stillness if he hadn’t cracked open his door to find Odie Doty, sans mailbag but still in uniform, standing on his porch.

* * *

It was strange to see the new mailman not in motion even after three months of knowing him.

It was like seeing something work against its core programming, generating uncanniness in its stillness.

And yet there he was, utterly still, camped out in a chair in front of Sybilus’s desk obviously eyeing the jars of complimentary mints and individually wrapped lollipops as he wrestled with the choice of which one he would select for himself.

The candy was old, because nobody in town really had kids anymore who came with them to the bank and Sybilus couldn’t bear to part with it.

But since his arrival Odie Doty had been slowly chipping at away at the candy stash, and it had only lasted this long because Sybilus had made Odie swear on his honor as a postman that he would only take one piece candy with each visit to the bank.

_They’d had to implement that rule because Odie, it seemed, was hardly a master of self control. Otherwise he’d eat both jars by himself in about ten minutes and make himself sick. He’d already done so with a now abandoned and empty jar that had once contained chocolates._

When Sybilus had met Odie Doty for the first time he had been running. He had been jogging from building to building, gazing through windows seemingly without having a destination in mind.

He had the enthusiasm of a child window-shopping, peering into the different buildings of Connor Creek like he had found himself surrounded by wonders.

Sybilus only noticed him when he stuck his chiseled face in the window of the bank and began to wave emphatically.

Sybilus had been in the middle of walking Eugenia Meadows through the basic financial requirements for taking out student loans for Donny, and promptly snapped his pen in half at the sight of a golden-eyed werewolf he’d never seen before waving at him in jogging clothes on the middle of a Tuesday. He had immediately stumbled out of his chair, tripped over a carpet, and run for Desmond while shouting apologies to Eugenia.

But now Odie was a town staple, constantly lunging and doing wind-sprints across town to hand out flyers and letters that he clearly already read.

It was still strange then, how still he got when he came to sit in the bank.

It always happened, when he came to share his lunch break with Sybilus or simply stopped in on a hot day to listen to the wheeze of the old-conditioner after huffing it across town. Sybilus was always happy to bring him a little styrofoam cup of water from the cooler, and Odie would help him roll change if he had the time.

Perhaps it was the simple aura of the bank where Sybilus spent his days with mechanical precision that drew Odie into a similar steadiness, or the dampening chill of a building full of mostly empty teller windows that slowed the hustle of progress.

Or, maybe it was the intense concentration he had to wrestle with when presented with the choice between a tacky lollipop or a dry mint.

“What about a scooter?” Odie asked, reaching a hand for the mint jar before pulling back as if that had been too easy.

“Well–I–I mean–I’ve never s–s– _seen_ a mail scooter…but that doesn’t mean it is impossi–improbi– _unheard of_.” Sybilus offered, taking a bite out of his sandwich (careful to avoid dripping mustard on his lapel).

“Because a car just feels… _wrong_ , you know?”

“And I doubt it would fulfill your…needs.” Sybilus thought of Odie hiking over wooded terrain to get the mail to the edges of town, pushing himself to places where the average mail truck simply wouldn’t go.

Once Sybilus had watched as Odie had scaled a tree to deposit a post-card Agnes had sent (on the mayor’s behalf) to a long-toothed cat that welcomed it “to the neighborhood” without a moment’s hesitation.

“But a scooter…it might be more helpful in the rain. Or on my off days.” Odie said, finally unscrewing the top on the lollipop jar and picking it up.

Sybilus stared blankly at Odie, who in shaking the jar to get a view of all of his possible choices was inevitably flexing and revealing the impossible muscle of his arms.

“Odie…respectfully…I don’t think–think you _have_ off days,” Sybilus said.

“I get sick,” Odie unwrapped a bright green lollipop and stuck it in his mouth.

“Odie I have known you for–for three months and I have never even seen you get _w–winded_. The only time I’ve ever seen you–seen you sick is when you ate all th–tha–that chocolate–.”

“Well maybe I’d just like a scooter,” Odie huffed. “I could get one of those cool ones, and I could take Crispin on rides.”

“W–Well if it would make you happy, I think a scooter could be indispensable, and much kinder on your car–cartilage in the future.”

“Do you know how much money I would need to save to buy a scooter?”

“Odie, I–I don’t know how many times I have to repeat this. But just because I am a b– _banker_ –just because I _work in fin–finance_ does not mean I have a comp–comp–comprehensive understanding of the prices of _all things_ ,” Sybilus said with the sigh of a man who had been having the same conversation for three months.

Odie mumbled something inaudible with the lollipop stick hanging out of his mouth.

“But, I _c–can_ tell you that if you intend to use the scooter for postal purposes–that is–for _business_ purposes–and the postal office does not _purchase_ the scooter _for_ you, you can include the cost of the scooter as a tax write off.”

Odie Doty nodded not-so-knowingly for but a moment, crunching through the lollipop as he did so. He tossed the stick into the wastepaper basket, and Sybilus could see that his tongue had been stained green.

“D–Do I need to explain tax write offs to you again?”

“That would be an affirmative, but I need to get back to my route. Can you walk and talk?”

Sybilus sighed and looked around the empty bank. He pulled out a small hand-painted sign that said “Out Walking, Be Back” and sat it on his desk.

He shrugged off his jacket and Odie leapt to his feet positively vibrating with excitement.

Sybilus moved to the door and, in turning back to begin his prepared statements about taxes, caught Odie with his hand in the mint jar.

Sybilus only had to narrow his eyes slightly for Odie to retract his hand and sheepishly hurry past him.

“N–Now you know you how you pay taxes each month,” Sybilus began.

“Oh, yeah, totally. Deliver bank statements all the time, definitely know how those work.” Odie sounded like a man who fully did not understand that he paid taxes.

Sybilus sighed, it was going to be a long walk.

* * *

The sight of Odie on his porch in the middle of the night instantly made the alarm bells Sybilus had just begun to silence clamor to attention.

“O–Odie? What–What’s wrong?” Sybilus whispered cautiously, eyes scanning the surrounding land for some kind of witness or hidden figure. “What _happened_?”

Odie shook his head wordlessly, face serious. He wasn’t injured, his hat hung from its chord around his neck to rest on his back. But he didn’t as much as tap his foot, his body poised as if waiting for action.

Sybilus opened the door even wider, concern beginning to bloom into panic.

He opened his mouth to invite Odie in when he sprang forward and knocked Sybilus to the ground.

Sybilus had the wind knocked out of him from Odie’s knees connecting with his chest, and the world had turned upside down as he dazedly looked up at Odie, who crouched over him grinning impishly.

“N–N–No,” Sybilus croaked as Odie leaned down closer and he realized what was happening.

“ _Tag_ ,” Odie whispered, before springing back and sprinting back into the forest.

“Odie!” Sybilus found himself attempting to holler as he leapt to his feet. “Th–This is _not_ the time!”

“You’re _it_ ,” Odie roared back at him, and sped off into the forest and Sybilus had a moment to decide what he was going to do.

He knew what the safest choice was. He knew what he _should_ do on a night where two people had already died and the town’s paranoia was only being held in check by threadbare hearsay. But he also knew a core principle of his way of life that had served him well since he had found this new pack.

The chase could not end until Odie Doty was once again it.

And so Sybilus began to run, aware of the swelling in his bones and the howl in his heart as he did.

* * *

It had frankly been a while since Sybilus had transformed, if he was being honest.

It wasn’t exactly rare to catch sight of Odie shifted for a nightly run, or to walk in on Rita in the morgue fully transformed because she needed to reach the top-shelf formaldehyde. Even Desmond, with the patience of a saint and the resolve of a stone, occasionally could be found wandering the woods on some kind of patrol with more wolf-like features than human.

But for Sybilus it had been…well the last time he could remember was that night running with Desmond long ago. The pack had come to run together with each new addition, but no-one pushed when Sybilus requested to wait under the moon with bottles of water on two legs.

It wasn’t that he didn’t _enjoy_ the power that came with the full shift, or the freedom to do so whenever he chose.

It was just that his world was currently gauged by dress-shirts and fountain pens that he could unscrew with ease. It was having the time to take a razor to his face in the morning with care, and gentle eye contact that he could warmly grin under. It was a life where his hands could grow soft and he maintained complete control over who and what he was.

After so long spent living a human life like it was always destined to slip away with the arrival of the moon, there just wasn’t any primal glee left in losing himself in the song of the wolf.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t go at least half-way when Odie Doty foolishly decided to call for a game of _tag_.

It was something they did for each other. When Odie was cloistered and burning with energy that he just couldn’t burn off, or Sybilus was left silent and shaking in the prism of his thoughts, the other would always find him to knock him down and begin the game.

The others often joined in, transforming a simple chase from a hunt, but not tonight.

Tonight Sybilus Silver the Second was sprinting through the trees with the moon half full in the sky in pursuit of a single opponent. He was aware that if he collided with a tree he would surely hit it with enough force to send it toppling into the ground. Which would cause a colossal sound. Which would bring people, obviously, so he simply wouldn’t hit any trees.

_And he didn’t._

He had to admit to himself that this was the ease of the change, the power that had kept their way of life from dying out as the years passed. That kept them all from secluding themselves in caves to linger until they were nothing but myth.

Moments like this, where he could be happy with his lycanthropy, had been rare and far between when he was left to fend for himself on the run.

They were moments where he could come across the inevitable pitfalls of his existence, the mistakes that would surely lead to exposure or ruin, and know that they would not come to pass.

A security born not through ease or restriction but _power_. A power that he was wielding again now.

Odie had a head start, granted, but Sybilus knew how to be smarter. Odie barreled through his path, taking paths on a whim and often running through logs as opposed to vaulting them.

And Sybilus knew that while Odie had taken the right fork in the path towards the silver reserves, the left path actually could be faster if he took it and then left the path to crash back into the right one. He had walked these trails since he got here, and he knew them without even really having to think.

_He would probably have to throw away this shirt, now quite ripped from his sudden growth and streaked with kicked up dirt, but he’d at least had the thought to kick his shoes off on his porch–had he closed the door–there wasn’t time to think about that as he was crashing through the trees all the while aware of the blip on his radar that was Odie that was suddenly leagues behind him._

Because he was suddenly breaching a main path on the right, skidding to a stop before a cliff. His chest was heaving, but not from exertion. The cool air of the night burned in his lungs and seemed to fill up his body, rooting him in the land that surely loved him and leant him its strength.

_For a moment the land of Connor Creek was all there was. Stretching out far below was a far off river that shone like silver scales under the moon. It threaded like a vein of liquid moonlight through the dark swaying boughs of the pine trees that clustered together and gave the land life as they shook in the breeze. There were the far off pinpricks of life, cities silhouetted far away like gleaming treasure chests against the sky with their jeweled lights. There was nothing to separate the languid flow of the land from the swaying sky. And if he looked up he could see the whirling multitudes of galaxies above, all outshone by a moon that seemed to be singing only for him._

Sybilus was alive, and for a moment he totally forgot there was anything to fear. Or anything to return to and fuss over. Or anything between _him_ and _here_ and _this_.

And then he heard the shaking sound of something leaping into a pine tree and turned around to see Odie Doty’s foot scramble up into a tree. Sybilus realized he should have accounted for this. That as soon as Odie saw Sybilus in front of him he would have made a rash decision.

It happened _frequently_ in games of tag.

Because when Odie was backed into a corner he did not give in, but he also didn't lash out physically, he instead tended to leap into trees.

And he was notoriously awful at getting himself down from them.

Sybilus let out a sigh that sounded like it was loosed from a bellows.

“Odie,” he called with his voice as loud as it was deep and growling in his chest.

Odie whined slightly and the branches of the tree shook. He’d probably realized it was a poor idea as soon as he’d landed.

“Odie y–you _can’t_ keep doing this,” he said with his voice muffled around the fangs crowding his mouth.

When Odie didn’t have an answer, Sybilus knew what he had to do.

He sighed through his nose, backed up several steps, delicately moved his glasses to his pocket, and leapt up to land next to Odie with a heavy _thud_ that made the tree groan as if it were contemplating falling.

As the branch shook like it too was terrified of being this high up, Sybilus had the thought that at least this time Odie had managed to land on a sturdy branch.

Sybilus reached out a single clawed finger and tapped Odie’s shoulder. “You’re it,” he said simply, looking up at the stars.

“Why did you come up here? Now we’re _both_ stuck,” Odie rasped pitifully, his pupils contracted as if he couldn’t bear to tear his eyes away from the ground. Like if he looked away for even a second it would somehow shrink even farther away.

“Well I–I couldn’t just leave you up here _alone_.” Sybilus shook himself slightly, and felt himself carefully come back into focus again.

Shifting was blurring the edges of what made Sybilus...well _Sybilus_.

It was slipping himself away under the layers of something else. And returning to humanity meant refocusing himself, bringing the world back to itself.

The chill of the night came back sharply, the scents of birds and beasts fading to the background. He watched his claws recede, and took the time to put his glasses back on. The world truly came back into focus.

“But now nobody’s going to come get us.” Odie sounded absolutely miserable.

“Wh–Wh–What about the others? They’ll come looking soon enough, I’m sure. We weren’t exactly stealthy–silent– _subtle_.”

“They’re busy,” Odie wrapped his long rippling arms around the trunk of the tree. “I think they were going to meet Desmond in the cabin tonight, try to figure out who’s behind all this.” Odie did tear his eyes away from the ground to guiltily look at Sybilus. “They said they would have invited you, but Rita was pretty mad when Helen said we should wake you up.”

The cabin was a derelict property in Desmond’s name, an old homestead left deep in the woods that was left irrevocably scarred and uninhabitable from the end of the conflict with the MacMahons. It was where anyone met if they needed to truly avoid detection, a place most townsfolk were not aware of.

Rita had also started a rumor that it was haunted, so that kept most people from looking for it and explained the occasional odd sound away as the product of ghosts.

“What about you–? Unless–of course–if it’s alright for you to s–say?” Sybilus asked.

“Didn’t feel like going.” Odie shook his head irritably, and Sybilus noticed that his teeth had shrunk, almost imperceptibly unless you knew what you were looking for. “You know me, Sybilus. All this secrecy…it’s not how I do things. I’m an open guy, an even more open werewolf, and all I can really add to a meeting like that is how nobody’s written a _letter_ about setting up the local secret werewolf population to take the fall for a bunch of murders.”

As he finished speaking the wolf was mostly gone, nothing but the gleam of Odie’s eyes in the dark. Now he was just a postman stuck in a tree.

Sybilus waited for the anxiety to begin to fester in his gut, for the terror to wind its hands through his hair and begin to tug, but it never came. A strange content had seemingly grown up in its place.

All he felt was the cool air in his lungs, the joy of being on top of the world, and the spent feeling of having pushed his legs as fast as they could go.

“W–Well I suppose that means… _we’ll_ have to get _our–our–ourselves_ out of this tree then.” Sybilus looked down and knew it was too far to simply drop.

He looked towards the trunk and saw a few branches that might work as footholds. But climbing down backwards was hardly something he would do well as himself.

“Sybilus…what happened to your shoes?”

“I left them on my– _my porch_ , Odie. Unlike yours my–my line of work has a dress code and I can’t afford to keep replacing my work shoes for tag.” He’d had to deposit too many pairs of work shoes in the trash after ripping through them.

“Are you going to climb down barefoot?” Odie said, incredulously.

“Well th–there aren’t a great many other options,” Sybilus muttered. “Now If I can just–.”

He reached out to shake a branch slightly below him. It felt sturdy enough.

Maybe it would just be safer to try and muster up another shift and leap down. He really should have thought of getting them down before he let himself drop back into a human shape.

He was just beginning to formulate some kind plan for getting down when the shape of Odie Doty sped down the tree like some kind of athlete.

Sybilus, genuinely impressed, looked down at him.

Odie, grinning as if he hadn’t known that was in him, looked up and held out his arms.

“Y–Y–You won’t drop me this time?” Sybilus said shrewdly as he squinted down.

Odie grinned like a boy-scout. “That was _one_ time,” Odie held his arms even wider. “Unless you want to climb down?”

“If you drop me I’m– _I’m_ telling _Desmond_.” Sybilus felt that the threat was less effective from up a tree, but Odie nodded seriously seemingly out of respect.

"Trust me," Odie called like a man who should never be trusted.

Well, a single collision with the ground certainly wouldn’t feel _great_ , but he’d survive it.

And so he leapt from the branch, had a moment of sailing through the air, and finally landed safe and sound in Odie’s arms.

“Do you think this makes you _it_ again?” Odie chuckled as he set Sybilus down.

“We _both_ know that isn’t how tag works.” Sybilus flicked his ear, but took a moment as Odie flinched away laughing. “I–I think I really needed this, Odie. Thank you.”

Odie shrugged personably. “If there’s one thing I can understand it’s the need to take run every once in a while. And you haven’t been on a run in a _long_ while.”

“I–I have been _busy_.”

“And it’s stressing you out too much! You think I didn’t see the misspellings in that notification you sent Dr. Edwards about his account a few days ago?”

“These _times_ are horrible–awful–unprecedented– _stressful_ , Odie.”

“But that doesn’t mean you let it burn you out.”

Sybilus scrubbed a hand through his disheveled hair. “Well I suppose you’re right about that–though I doubt–I don’t think I have _too–too–too_ much control about burning out.”

“Well I’ll make you a deal. You get me out of trees, I’ll help you with burning out.” Odie grinned and for a moment he was impossibly young and alive and vibrant.

“I–I’ll need that in writing.”

“I’ll mail it to you.”

“Well that’s one le–le– _letter_ I’ll look forward to opening tomorrow.”

Sybilus wasn’t sure when they’d started walking, or how long it took them to make their way back to town. But eventually they were standing just off Sybilus’s porch, where the door was securely shut and a pair of faintly shining black business shoes were left waiting on a porch.

Sybilus waved Odie off and was unlocking his door when he turned back to smile at Sybilus. The moon lit him up around the edges, and he was so strong and young and open.

And then he walked off into the darkness.

And Sybilus was able to change out of his work clothes finally and collapse into bed for a wonderfully dreamless sleep as the mattress caught his weary bones.

His thoughts lingered slightly on Odie’s promise in writing as he got ready for his day.

It was eventually buried as he burned his tongue chugging a cup of coffee.

It was long gone as he steeled himself for an early meeting and a voting process that still terrorized him.

But he felt strangely stable, oddly still, and he had a thought that just maybe everything was going to turn out alright.

Those thoughts were quickly chased away by Rita’s account of the night before, where Artemis Schue-Horyn found the cabin and all but _confirmed_ the existence of werewolves. Olivia had been shot at in the middle of the street, the sheriff had _seen_ her.

The dread he’d felt at Paul’s quick assessment of the truth was sharpened into something that tore through him at the thought of Artemis, who had been so grounded in reality and oddly had been their greatest protector in her refusal to accept the supernatural, coming to hunt them down.

Sybilus began to feel vaguely ill. It was a nausea that made it impossible to move as the town moved through the caucus process. A sense of doom that had each submitted vote pressing on his chest.

That nausea began to compound as Madison Reynolds lost the election and Truman immediately, efficiently, called for a vote on Miner Mole’s being permitted to dig.

A vote that he, Rita, and Audrey lost to Riley, Cliff, Agnes, and Truman.

It was every nightmare he’d ever agonized over all knocking into each other at once. Failure, exposure, and the beginning of the end all thrashing against each other and combining to spell out the end.

A terror that was making his throat hitch and his eyes water and he didn’t know what he was going to do once he left the town hall.

And it was as they were stepping out from the meeting that Sybilus found the truly worst thing he had ever seen. A sight that made him realize he had only just begun to lose things in this horrible game

Something so horrifying that it almost unlocked a new sense of terror inside of him. A sense of loss that bubbled forth from his chest like tar and numbed him whereas everything else in his life had caused such pain.

He had just been turning to Rita to ask for lunch as they walked out of town hall to find Odie Doty’s body. His mail bag was split with letters blowing in the breeze, and Sybilus all but collapsed into Rita. They could only stare at Odie’s glassy-eyes as the town erupted into chaos around them.

A third body, mauled, undeniable proof that werewolves were in town and were surely dangerous creatures. He didn’t need to imagine the whispers that would ripple through the population, they were real. And they were quickly becoming battlecries.

It was a murder just like the others. But it was also world-shatteringly different. One of their own. Odie Doty who didn’t have a cruel bone in his body and didn’t play in secrets or subterfuge.

Dead. And yet he was alive in Sybilus’s mind, so alive in the moonlight just last night.

How could it have happened? What could have taken him so quickly?

“W–W–Why?” was all Sybilus could say before Rita was getting him up and shoving him towards the bank.

“You can’t be here like this Sybilus,” was all she said in a monotone. Rita, impossibly strong, was surely going to begin to process the body.

Faintly, Sybilus heard the sounds of a crowd amassing. Chants beginning. Calls for blood. Werewolves were in town. At least one. And there was no hiding it.

Oh, how wrong everything had gone.

What hope did they have now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that Sybilus had breakdowns or panics in all of the previous and decided that our soft boy needed a break...and then I got to the end of the chapter. 
> 
> And I realized where we were in the plot by the end of the chapter and knew we were going right back into panic town.
> 
> (Also shout out as to how these chapters inevitably become me giving myself council on burnout and expectations through telling Sybilus he deserves better).
> 
> I hope I did werewolf transformations justice, and that you enjoyed this chapter. Thank you for reading.


	5. The Tell-Tale Signs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Immediately following the murder of one Barney Fletcher and the eruption of the town of Connor Creek into mob-like chaos, Sybilus serves as a slight mortician's assistant. Wounds are examined (both physical and mental) and Sybilus has a chance to finally investigate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to this chapter being written when I published this fic but needing more stuff between the beginning and it. It's time to get into that backstory I fully made up sooooo hope that floats your boat! It's the inevitable question. If you have a Sybilus Silver II...what happened to Sybilus Silver I?

There wasn’t anything Sybilus could think of that could perfectly mimic the signs of a werewolf attack.

The brutality that was born from both man and beast at once, the lack of precision that came from a physicality that was wedged halfway between two differently functioning creatures, and the lack of efficiency when it came to disguising what could have done this were all distinguishing factors that separated the lycanthrope from any other killers.

Sybilus had seen too many victims first hand to ever be tricked by an imitation, so he had known that from the beginning the victims had to have been mauled by a true werewolf.

He had also been continuously begging the universe to make it so that nobody else in town realized it. This begging had apparently not worked, but he hadn’t been expecting things to _get even worse_.

As such, when Barney Fletcher collapsed into the town hall with the tell-tale _genuine_ signs of a werewolf attack littering his body in broad daylight, it had taken every fiber of Sybilus’s being not to lose consciousness.

The lacerations that decorated most of his body would surely match those on Ryan Reynolds, Prism, Odie, or even those that Sybilus was sure were hidden under a t-shirt on the broad back of Paul Schue-Horyn.

But the slash across his throat stood out.

It looked more like someone had taken a knife to his throat than anything else.

It was singular, not the wild five pointed slash of a clawed hand that would have ripped out the throat entirely and killed him in an instant.

When thinking about it comparison to the current circumstances, Sybilus thought maybe that would have been a mercy. Because instead of a quick death, someone had wanted Barney Fletcher to suffer.

Someone took the time to select which finger they would draw across his throat before they sent him stumbling into their midsts to set off an explosion of fear and chaos.

It was slow, deliberate, and it made Barney their mouthpiece.

It was a trap, efficiently timed and cruelly orchestrated, and it was all Sybilus could turn over in his mind like a worried coin in a pocket as he passed motion after motion from the council.

It felt a bit like tying his own noose, having to vote with the others to not step out of line. Having to pass the motions _himself_ before the town.

_Setting up a curfew that would severely limit the pack’s movements, and going forward with the creation a task force headed by the sheriff to hunt himself down._

He could only go over the sight of the body as he heard people he previously thought of as neighbors begin to call for his skin to be carved from his back to decorate their floor.

Whoever this was masterminding these efforts, they were winning. Their evidence had been planted, the numbers of opposition diminished, and the people of Connor Creek were out for blood.

Sybilus didn’t dare look to Rita, but he wanted nothing more than to reach for her hand.

He also didn’t dare look over to the Schue-Horyn twins. He was sure, in this moment, that if he locked eyes with either of them amidst the chaos he would have to stride over, turn on their recording equipment, and announce to the entire room that he was a werewolf.

However, he didn’t have long to worry about that because as soon as Sheriff Reynolds began to corral the enthusiastic townsfolk into groups the twins scurried out of the hall without looking at anyone.

_Well, at least that was taken care of. Only a thousand other problems to go._

As the others began to rush from the hall in a great wave, he heard Rita call in a level but lifeless voice.

“Sybilus, I need you to stay back. I’ll need help with the body.”

Sybilus, jarred from his thoughts, did his best to pretend he had been in motion that he now had to stop from. Not that anyone seemed to be noticing them staying behind as the newly formed mob finally swept into the streets.

Sybilus realized he’d been forgetting to breathe, and sucked in a breath. He turned to Rita who was unfolding a full-sized black body bag next to the corpse.

“W–W–Where were you _keeping_ that?”

“In my purse. Give me your watch, I need to figure out the time of death.” Rita held out a gloved hand, Sybilus pulled his dented pocket-watch from his jacket and gingerly handed it to her over the corpse (which he couldn’t look at for too long).

“We wa-wa-watched him _die_ , Rita.” Sybilus bit out, taking his glasses off to rub at his eyes. “Ten minutes ago.”

“Technically nine minutes and forty-five seconds ago, if we want to be exact, which we do.” Rita rattled off the exact time and date to herself before pausing in looking at the face of the watch as she went to close it. “Why is your name in this watch?”

Sybilus felt something coil up in his chest, marinating in dread, of course this would come up now. Of course it would. “It isn’t _my_ name.”

“Well, yes, it is. Look, Sybilus Silver _–huh._ The second is missing.” She tilted her head to the side.

“It was my–my f– _my f_ –my father’s.” He moved to pace away from the body, an age-old itch returning for the first time in at least ten years. The hunters were assembling. If there was ever a time to run to his house, pack a single bag, and head in a random direction as fast as he could, it was now.

Rita delicately reached her free hand out to thumb Barney’s eyes closed. Only Rita would wear elbow-length dinner gloves and use them as medical gloves. “You’ve never mentioned your father before.” Her voice was light, as if she could keep the pressure at bay through conversation alone.

“It hasn’t been relev-relev- _been rele_ – _it hasn’t come up_ ,” Sybilus felt like taking one of the chairs and folding them in half. He felt like putting his fist through a window. He felt like running outside and burying his teeth in something. Faintly he wondered how much the silver reserves had already been depleted, if they were already lost.

“In eight years?”

“ _I don’t want to talk about it Rita_.” He hadn’t realized that he yelled until his voice was nothing but a faint echo against the ceiling. He immediately covered his mouth.

“Not a single stutter,” Rita said, staring at him with oddly deep eyes.

“My apologies, Rita. I don’t know wh–what–.”

“What happened to your father?” Rita asked, like it was something simple.

Silence stretched out from somewhere deep inside of Sybilus like a chasm, one that it would be far easier to fling himself into at this point.

But instead, he took a breath, and put his glasses back on.

“Th–This is a poor time to discuss it.”

“As good a time as any.”

Sybilus looked to the door, closed his eyes, and listened. He didn’t notice anyone lurking, anyone on their way inside. The action was, after all, on the street. Rita it seemed was content to go through the motions of checking Barney’s body while staring Sybilus down like a dead fish.

He sighed, and gave in.

“He died.” Sybilus went to a chair in the rows of the audience and sat down. His hands fidgeted as he went to look anywhere other than Rita. “Or–I should say he was killed– _shot down_ –by a mob almost exactly like–no, _ex–exactly_ like this one.” He laughed, but it sounded broken and hollow, tapping against his forehead with a dry fingertip. “Or at least that’s wha–wha–what my mother said happened. I think. I was away at coll–coll– _at school_ , you understand.”

Rita nodded, almost imperceptibly. Something in Sybilus’s eyes felt wet.

“There’s a reason werewolves don’t have very big families, that is, anymore, you know. Every wolf in a pack like my fam–like my first one…without the silver reserves…was _a liability_. Another mo–mo–monster to risk exposure when the moon rose.” He paused, struggling, mouth working to find the right way to phrase the right words. “I had five sib–sib–siblings, you know. Some of them reminded me exactly of you or Odie or any of the others. But I was the first, the oldest, the one who shared my father’s na–na–name and was promised his watch. That’s the tradition, you know.”

_A watch his father kept on a long chain and twirled when he was excited. A watch his father would let him hold on nights around the fire when all he grinned over was an old joke._

_A watch Sybilus had admired for years and been promised when he came back with a degree in finance. A watch that he had instead received, dented with a crack in its glass face, in the last letter he ever received from his mother._

“During my second year, there was an attack. Someone in our pack mauled the m–mayor in front of a traffic cam–cam–camera. And my home town couldn’t deny that they had a werewolf in their midsts with vi–video proof. I don’t know who it was–who lost control–my mother wouldn’t say. But the hunt had already started, and someone had to ta–ta–take the blame for the killings. Otherwise they would have all been discovered. The hunt would never end. So my fa– _my fa_ –fath–.“ He let the word go like a kite in a storm, the wetness from his eyes was rapidly flowing down his cheeks. It was strange, how foreign it felt. Normally when he wept it shook him body and soul.

And yet in this moment, as he reached up to feel his cheeks, it was as if the tears weren’t even a part of him. They were just there.

“Well he–he was a lot like–like Desmond, in a way, funnily enough. The head of the pack does what’s right. He did what he thought best–right– _safe_. The others they–they had to leave–they had to _split up_ , that’s what they learned–what I learned. Lone wolves, and all that. That’s how you surviv–surviv–surviv–ed.” His voice had become so small, looking at Rita who had her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed like he was a strange puzzle she’d set about solving.

“And n–now the same kind of thing is happening _ag–ag–again_.” Rita walked over to him, slowly. She took a seat in the chair next to him, still looking. He wondered if she could read his heart rate from here. If she could tell from looking at him the exact moment in which his heart would stop.

Instead, she reached out and embraced him. She smelled faintly of chemicals, faintly of something bright streaking through the trees. He couldn’t find the strength to lift his arms, but to let himself be held was surprisingly enough.

“You’re not a lone wolf anymore. You aren’t allowed, safety in numbers. We’re a pack. We’re the fucking _Connor wolves_ , and we stick together. We’re going to protect you. And you’ll protect us. And we’ll _be alright_.” If she shook it was almost imperceptible, if she was scared her voice didn’t show it. If anything Rita Waldeburg was daring the world to prove her wrong.

Sybilus sniffed, tried his best to pretend he was brave, and nodded wordlessly. Rita slipped the pocket watch back (closed tightly) into his pocket.

“Now, I need you to sniff this corpse,” she said as she pulled away. “Your nose is better than mine.”

“I–I doubt that’s true,” Sybilus offered.

“It’s all the formaldehyde, plus I’m going to be getting close enough to this guy's corpse later. You can take one for the team right now.”

Sybilus only scrunched his nose up slightly at the prospect of putting his face anywhere near what remained of Barney, but he inevitably remembered Desmond’s instructions at the bar.

He hadn’t been able to do anything for Ryan, for Prism, or even for Odie. But he could damn well _do something_ for Barney Fletcher of all people. He could do something for _his_ people.

“F–For the Connors.”

And it was just as Sybilus was picking up Barney’s clammy arm and lowering his face down to his bloodied chest that Helen hurried into the room and caused him to nearly have a heart attack.

“We need to do something, _now_ –!” Helen was already hissing, her determination skidding to a halt as she took in the sigh of a tear-stained Sybilus crouching over a corpse like some kind of demonic accountant. The effect was surely lost as he let out a yelp and fell over, kicking away from the corpse.

“We _are_ doing something, Helen. Sybilus is going try and get whoever did this’s scent.” Rita hurriedly explained, looking oddly excited at the prospect of watching Sybilus sniff a corpse. “And he’s going to give me all the different scents for my file…maybe that should be it’s own file now that I think about it–.”

“No offense to your…plan, but that didn’t exactly work well the last three times.”

“Those times were different! This corpse is fresh. _He just died_. In front of us! There’s nothing to overpower the scent now.” Rita, again, was quite enthusiastic.

Sybilus loved her and decided then and there that he would rip the arms off of anyone who tried to hurt her, no matter what.

“Uh, yeah, I know! _He’s_ all anyone is taking about anymore. The whole town is trying to get Olivia to let them raid her store to go werewolf hunting with unlimited silver bullets. She sent me to get you two and figure out _something_ to do, because whatever we decide we need to do it fast before the hunting parties go out.”

“Well–Well what do _you_ suggest we do? Exactly?” Sybilus had caught himself on his hands as he’d flailed. “We’re run–run–running out of time.”

“I think we need more allies. Strength in numbers.”

“Who would you suggest?” Sybilus said.

Rita raised her hand.

“Rita, for the last time, zombies are not going to be suitable allies.” Helen sighed without fully looking at her.

Rita lowered her hand.

“I was thinking we ask the only people who seem to listen to anyone in this town for help. They’re the only ones I didn’t notice outside whipped up into a frenzy.” Helen didn’t exactly look pleased, but she looked like she wouldn’t be swayed.

“An–A–And you’re sure they’ll help us?”

“If we offer them a good enough story they will.” Helen crossed her arms.

“Now, finish putting your nose on that corpse if you _have_ to, get it out of here, and head to The Dead Canary in twenty minutes. I’m going to go try to hand out some tickets to those rioters to make them slow their roll, and then go collect the podcasters.”

Sybilus nodded once, grateful for Helen’s mind for action as she stalked out of Town Hall with the door slamming shut behind her, and sighed as he once again got uncomfortably close to the body.

He’d never been particularly fond of Barney, but he’d been willing to listen to the dinosaur egg spiel at least four times. And once, Barney had given him half off keychains after he directed a few bank collectors through his doors when they waited for Sybilus to finalize some paperwork in triplicate.

But there bigger things to consider than half off keychains, or squeamishness, so Sybilus bent over the corpse of a man who had never quite been his friend, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply through his nose–.

* * *

_Cheap cotton of Barney’s t-shirt, the fibers mingling with blood as they were dug through the broken skin. The ink on the front peeling off, hand-printed with the cheapest ink he could order online. The ink still carries a trace of the cheap plastic bottle as whiskey carries the taste of the barrel._

_Fabric softener, all but scentless for sensitive skin. Purchased in the general store and out of date, small but still present._

_Raw egg now dried into the skin of his hand, a simple chicken egg. The scent was cloying and rubbery and distracting as the hand had been stained yellow. It explained why Barney always smelled faintly of eggs. Replacing it every so often to keep the whole hall of the museum from smelling of cloying sulfur._

_But there was no overpowering the scent of the–._

_Blood. Copious amounts, all smelling the same. Smelling human. Smelling of Barney Fletcher. Blood type B, he’d guess, but it was somewhat of a shot in the dark. Too apparent. Unlikely that a combat scenario ensued and the killer’s blood remained somewhere on his person. Move on, quickly. The longer you’re here the more likely it is someone will find you and then–._

_Focus. Fear-filled sweat in the back, arms, and face. Spikes of hormones and heat as the blood poured and the body shook. Shambling forward. Shedding heat as quickly as it could before it went too cold. Ancient sweat embedded in the armpits of the shirt._

_The touch of leather from Barney’s vest which was gone, somewhere–lingering–lost–outside the building. He could smell it faintly, trace it back to where it was left forlornly to be trampled underfoot by the droves of people outside who all were nothing but distractions right now._

_A ham sandwich for lunch, mustard smeared about his mouth and wiped away with a cheap paper napkin again printed with ink that stayed on the mouth in trace amounts._

_A homemade cologne Barney once tried to sell as Dinosaur Egg Sweat that Sybilus has never smelled on another person, two parts cinnamon whiskey and one part pine-scented oil from an air freshener, dabbed twice under each ear. Remnants left on the fingertips of each hand._

_Pines though, pines, there were pine trees here somewhere. Real ones. Gray pines, their sap oozing deep onto the skin for long enough to stain. Oil soft and gummy on the hands. The smell of pine ladened with snow in the frozen air, traveling a path in the winter, shivering. A past of travel, the scent of the road. In the shirt, handprints. Clawed. They tore through the shirt, the cheap fabric giving away as he was lifted up into the air. There it was. Not a thing, not a place, a person._

_A werewolf._

_Huge and hulking and panting with tongue-lolling excitement as Barney Fletcher scrabbled fruitlessly at their hands. They smelled like the forest, like clear rain sweeping through land and knocking down trees as it went. The rolling of the storm. It’s something like Desmond, who smells of lighting and age and fire of the ancient blood that flows inside of him. Something old. Something strong you could smell coming from him._

_A smell of someone else that overpowers but does not seek to hide the smell of other blood: Ryan, Odie, Paul. Victims that are but minuscule notes in their story. Kept under their nails with pride. Mild hints in the fragrance._

_And under all of that, hatred. It didn’t have a one to one scent, but it was there. Thick like woodsmoke, burning in his nose like sulfur from eggs or old marshland. The scent of disdain and ruin. Someone was acting out of malice so old it could linger in the air like a curse._

_Someone strong enough to kill all of them easily._

_Someone strong enough that if Barney scrabbled at their grip with his long-fingered hands they wouldn’t need to worry about him breaking their grip. He could claw all he liked, but they were too strong. They could hold him with one hand as they slit his throat outside the town hall with the other and sent him into the masses._

_Someone he’d never smelled before, because he knew the scent of every citizen of Connor Creek by heart, and this was new. Whoever did this had power so potent that when they transformed they lost any and all scent of their other life. No fabric softener, no perfume, no human anywhere to be found. Again he’s only ever noticed that in one other werewolf in town. Blood required colossal strength to shed any hints of the human they were. Someone in town wasn’t who they said they were. Someone in town, someone he’d sat by or shaken their hand of or seen walking down the street, had been very dangerous since they arrived._

_Someone was hiding a strength and power old enough to challenge even Desmond for the fate of Connor Creek._

* * *

Sybilus’s eyes snapped open as if awakening from some kind of trance. Luckily, he did so away from the body. His hair, he realized, was slightly ruffled. His suit jacket was off, flung behind him he supposed as soon as it encumbered his movements. There was a smear of blood on the left lens of his glasses, obscuring his vision slightly. He blinked widely, looking around, and almost slammed his face directly into Rita who was sitting very close to him.

“What did you smell?” She asked, insistently.

“Everything…but also nothing definitive–er concrete–er _helpful_. I could recognize the scent if I en–encountered it again, but until they’re transformed they’ll simply smell of human blood. They’re too pow–pow–powerful to leave a human trace behind. But…” he turned back to the corpse thoughtfully. Sybilus reached out for Barney’s hands, and plucked a minuscule tuft of pure white hair from under one of his nails.

_Scrabbling, thrashing, tearing a chunk away from a wrist that went completely unnoticed. Barney telling them what he saw even without getting the chance._

“That doesn’t mean they didn’t leave _other_ traces though,” he finished (feeling somewhat giddily like a detective) Rita all but squealed, pulling out a black handkerchief for him to gingerly place the fur in. She gazed at it fondly, and Sybilus had a moment where pride could radiate from his chest like the heart of a star at finally finding something that could make things better.

But then he became aware of a horrible but now familiar taste coating the entire length of his tongue, musty and human. He smacked his lips with a grimace. He looked back towards the body.

“Pl–Pl–Please tell me I didn’t–.”

“You did,” Rita said solemnly. “I think it helped somehow.”

Sybilus held another hand out for another of Rita’s handkerchiefs, which he used to throughly wipe the surface of his tongue. He still gagged, slightly, but it helped a bit.

“You know what they say about werewolves,” Rita hummed.

“D–D–Don’t.” Sybilus’s muffled protests fell on deaf ears.

“Remarkable sense of taste,” Rita finished.

Sybilus did not even dignify that with a response. He instead did his best to clean his glasses on the tail of his shirt, and scrambled to find his jacket.

There were stripes of dust on one of the lapels from its time on the floor, but at least he’d had the sense to toss it away from the blood.

Rita folded the handkerchief up and put it in her purse. “We should have just enough time to get him on ice before we head to The Dead Canary. Barney’s final wish was to be entombed in a giant egg…to be found by paleontologists of the future...who knows what materials I’ll have to use to make _that_.”

“That’s a question for af–af–after we survive this. _If_ we do,” Sybilus said as he shrugged into his jacket. “Well, we won’t if you keep thinking like that. Now come on, if you help me carry him back to the morgue I’ll let you freshen up in my office before you have to see _Paul_.”

Again, only Rita would choose to tease him about Paul Schue-Horyn as she bent down to lift up the bottom half of a body bag that they were to carry through town.

“…fine. But I’m carrying the feet.”

Rita shrugged, and moved to the top Barney’s corpse.

“God, I hope people don’t just immediately assume we’re werewolves because we’re caught lugging the body around,” she grumbled as they both lifted it with ease.

“I–I’ll pretend to stumble a bit once we get past the doors.” Sybilus faintly pondered the futility of the charade, as they were about to go reveal their true nature to two reporters. And yet, even now he still felt the need to hide in plain sight.

Maybe it was just second nature at this point. A tell-tale sign of his upbringing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen I can't write werewolf fiction and not include SOME kind of weird stream of consciousness smell scene. I don't know why. It's a rule. (Plus maybe it will come in some kind of gay way later who's to say ; ) certainly not me).
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Shout to to me making myself sad about Sybilus's family leaving and just the whole vibe of their stressful situation.
> 
> (But how about...next time...as a treat...some gay? Paul's been busy for a while but he's BACK IN THE PICTURE BABY).
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	6. In a Way, Miraculous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment between what you might colloquially call Werewolf Buddies, moving into the final stand of the werewolves of Connor Creek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been a minute...turns out that when you spend the last week before you go back to college doing nothing but writing this fic you have to stop work entirely for the last four days and frantically pack to move yourself across the country. But...did it! And I even managed to finish this chapter after my big project so it's actually going rather well. I definitely have lost some steam though, but I am dedicated to finish this fic which...might happen in two chapters?? We'll see! Thank you very much for your patience.

Artemis Schue-Horyn had the soul of a bloodhound and the ever shifting mind of a super computer that, once combined, made her a perfectly terrifying investigative journalist.

She probably could have used these powers to topple governments, but instead she had been sent here to roar past Sybilus’s life like a train that only _just_ missed him as she found a better opponent.

Or, at least, that was Sybilus’s main assessment of her as she stormed out of The Dead Canary with a growl at her lips and a sense of stalwart determination to her stride that he hadn’t managed to muster up in his whole life.

For once since he’d begun his career in Miner Mole Incorporated, Sybilus was actually a little worried about Silas Toren, if Artemis was seeking him out like this.

She would charge through any thicket in pursuit of her prey, and probably rip out his heart with her teeth if he wouldn’t talk.

_Maybe it was lucky for the world that Paul was the one inflicted with partial lycanthropy. Artemis Schue-Horyn didn’t need anything else to make her more terrifying. None of the world’s secrets would survive._

And yet inevitably to consider Artemis was to immediately begin to consider Paul, especially as he amicably remained at the table while his sister stormed out.

Paul Schue-Horyn was…so many other things in turn. Loyal to a fault, and yet willing to pass off that same loyalty to any he deemed worthy.

After all here he sat opposite a relative stranger with a fondness for taxidermy, a woman who had served him the new town record in civil citations, and a werewolf he claimed as his friend after two sentences while his sister stalked off after the genuine threat alone.

Paul had learned their monstrous secret, and yet he still sat with them grinning like they were friends meeting up to gossip about their weekend over cheese fries.

He’d learned their secrets, seen their lack of strength as they slunk into the spotlight without any other choice, and yet still chose to stay with them anyway.

There was a baffling softness to him, an openness that also had to be well-suited to investigative journalism.

Paul was almost supernaturally likable, and if Sybilus wasn't already a werewolf he’d have wondered if being cursed with lycanthropy had added a sort of mystical glamor that made him seem even more approachable.

But Sybilus knew that was ridiculous. After all, he’d never experienced such side effects.

And besides, Paul had already been glowing with this strange effect _before_ the attack in Prism’s shop. So that hypothesis was null and void.

It was just somehow an intrinsic part of how Paul worked, though it did explain why he was pivotal to the process of creating a podcast.

If Artemis was finding the answers, Paul was keeping them well-liked enough to not be run out of town upon revealing them. He also seemed to have his own methods for getting people to reveal their secrets.

_After all, within minutes of talking to Paul (with his open-hearted eagerness to learn and help and his smile), Sybilus had to consciously work to not open his mouth and pass every secret he had into Paul’s waiting hands._

What had been a mere conversational tick upon their first meeting had now grown into a near compulsion as Paul eagerly tapped against the table of The Dead Canary. The draw of good conversation and a friendly ear, Sybilus supposed, was one thing on its own. But now he had the strangest feeling that something else entirely had begun.

_A feeling that kindly told him that if he did show Paul all of the parts of himself he’d ever tried to hide from the world, or the parts that he’d been certain weren’t worth anything, Paul would simply take every bloody or shameful thing in stride. He’d help to carry them, maybe. And he’d still be happy to know Sybilus._

_It was, in a way, miraculous._

But Paul also had a habit of saying very stupid things with great enthusiasm.

It was frustratingly adorable.

“Nobody says that anymore,” Sybilus muttered, cringing more at the fluttering of his heart than anything else.

Instead of looking bashful or regretful though, Paul immediately nodded with understanding. Like all of this was reasonable, like he was learning the rules about when to put his trash out after moving to a new neighborhood instead of learning how to best interface with the underground werewolf community.

“Got it,” he smiled again and Sybilus faintly considered how he had never met someone so excited to learn anything before. “Are there any _werewolf approved_ nicknames I should know about? I want to be all over this before the first werewolf potluck.”

“We don’t have potlucks, Paul.” Helen sighed, and for a moment Sybilus could see her dream of having another sensible adult werewolf in town go up in smoke.

“Well, not yet you don’t! But let me tell you, back in L.A. Arty and I hosted the _best_ neighborhood get togethers.” He leaned close, his eyes gleaming, and spoke directly to Sybilus. “You haven’t _lived_ till you’ve tried my hot cheese dip.”

His sheer enthusiasm drove Helen from the table like a heat-wave to have a conversation in hushed tones with Desmond (who had been distinctly pretending he couldn’t hear any of them).

Paul took that moment to grin at Rita who looked like she was sizing up his coffin in the fondest way possible.

“I like your necklace,” he said as if this were the first time he noticed it, moving his glasses up his nose to peer closer.

_He offered compliments with frightening ease, eagerly noting his favorite things in the world and telling everyone about them almost as soon as he found them. Any yet each one felt unquestioningly special, like a gift from his hand made especially for you. He was always looking for something to be impressed with. It was heart-warming._

“Thank you, I hunted it myself.” Rita positively gleamed with pride, thoughtfully fingering the place where the teeth began to jut out of the straight length of the jaw that dangled between her clavicles.

“Rita truly is one of our fore–fore– _foremost_ experts in the hunting and pre–preservation of the specific fauna of Connor Creek. If that is something you are fascinated–intrigued–interested in…and we survive the coming days, you’ll want to go to her,” Sybilus offered.

And he distinctly _didn’t_ blush as Paul looked at him like he’d just told him the secret to eternal life.

He immediately began asking Rita a flurry of questions about if werewolves needed hunting permits. And yet Sybilus could not bring himself to focus on the conversation.

_Because–because–._

_In the golden light of the lamp Paul’s skin gleamed and his hair curled softly like coils of heavy smoke._

_He spoke animatedly, with his both of his hands engaged, and he was quick to laugh and impress. The flash of his teeth was not sharp or quick or dry but pearly._

_There was a mote of something like dust in his hair now that Sybilus was looking at it, and Sybilus began to wrestle with the internal debate of whether he should reach out and brush it away._

_But he didn’t do that, obviously, because he was not an insane person who made moves on young half-werewolves he only met a few days ago._

At least he could take comfort in the fact that Paul’s transformation meant he probably wouldn’t directly reveal their secrets to the outside world if they were lucky. Hopefully it could be fully stricken from the podcast.

But in looking at Paul, alive and bubbling with personality, Sybilus could only wonder what a life of lycanthropy, even half of it, would force him to give up.

_A life as a werewolf was a life spent constantly looking over his shoulder, a life where very few people ever got to truly know him. A life as a werewolf often meant a feeling of separation from his body, a fear of what he was truly capable of. Imagining Paul, with his heart on his sleeve and his glee rarely whispered, having to start hiding made Sybilus feel ill._

But it wouldn’t have to come to that. Paul would leave Connor Creek with his sister, go back to podcasts and large cities and neighborhood get togethers, and never have to know the full horror of losing his body to the capricious whims of the moon.

The thought of Paul leaving made something hollow and piteous ring in Sybilus’s chest, but that feeling was honestly drowned out by relief.

Paul was now holding Rita’s jawbone necklace and making it swim through the air, based on the intense face he was making he was probably making it talk with a goofy voice.

He hoped Paul got to go home after all of this.

_He hoped that Paul never had to stop entering rooms like he was excited to be there. He hoped that someone got to hold his hand and trace careful fingertips along the scars on his back in wonderment at the things that knit themselves together to make him. Scars that he would one day laugh off as a simple accident instead of a life-changing event, when his voice was husky with sleep and his eyes went soft in the moonlight that held no sway over him._

_Oh, he'd been silent for too long._

He realized that Rita and Paul were staring at him. Paul’s face was slowly growing confused if not concerned, and Rita grinning far too widely for it to be anything good.

“I’m–I’m sorry? My–My mind was preoccupied–distant…elsewhere. What did you say?”

“I wanted your phone number, dude! We gotta get the WolfChat up and running ASAP. For strategical purposes.”

Paul was scooting a napkin and a pen emblazoned with the American Podcasting Network logo over to him, and Sybilus saw that Rita’s phone number was already scribbled onto it next to a doodle of a skull.

“Yeah, Sybilus. It’s a great idea for Paul to have all of our contact information in case he has any questions about his new way of life. Or if he needs to report on any _sudden changes_ –.” Rita wiggled her eyebrows at him and Sybilus became aware of a smarting at the tips of his ears as blood rushed to his face and he shot an elbow out to connect with her side. He was certain that was the only thing that saved him from further torment.

She only laughed breathily over the slight wheeze, and he looked down on the napkin like a it was the inevitable passage of time. Rita was looking at him. _Paul_ was looking at him. There was only one thing to be done.

Wordlessly, helplessly, he reached for the pen and quickly jotted down his phone number. Professionally, without any doodles, because he was an adult.

“Thanks man!” Paul said, moving to collect the napkin. “Now I’ll just go get Helen’s number–hey do you think now that we’re wolf buddies she’ll stop giving me so many tickets? I’m really wracking up a bill here and podcasting isn’t that lucrative a business–.”

Sybilus reached out to give him back his pen, but as their hands brushed briefly Sybilus flinched and he sent the pen clattering to the table. _Oh, God, really?_

“Oh, I’ll go get Helen’s number for you Paul,” Rita cooed as she scooped up the pen and held out her other hand for the napkin. “She’s probably asking Desmond about catering some kind of _welcome party_ for you and if you go over there it will just _ruin_ the surprise.”

“ _Oh my God, I knew there was going to be a welcome party_. I didn’t even think about that, thanks Rita! Really saved my bacon on that one.” Paul amicably passed the napkin over while Sybilus, with dawning horror, stared at Rita like the traitor she was. She grinned at him, as his mind frantically reached for a means of preventing this juvenile nonsense. For a moment she was still trapped in the booth by his body. He could work with this. He–.

“Sybilus you’ve gotta move, hopefully you can entertain Paul by yourself while I’m gone.” Rita pushed his shoulder playfully and Sybilus could see the laughter she was barely repressing lurking in her eyes.

“Rita–Rita–no– _no–no_ –no– _don’t_ –,” he hissed as she heaved him out of the booth and slipped past him despite his best attempts to brace against it like some kind of furious cat.

“Have fun you two,” Rita called with a wave and a wink before hurrying over to where Helen and Desmond were still deep in conversation.

As she turned her back to him, Sybilus was left with nothing to do but quickly turn back to look into Paul’s eyes and offer a frantic smile like everything was fine. Paul, miraculously, didn’t look like anything strange had just happened.

“So, you’re a werewolf.” Paul laced his fingers together with his elbows propped up on the table. “Yes–yes…that’s right.” Sybilus tried to sound like this was a perfectly normal conversation and he wasn’t wanting to crawl under the table.

“And I’m a _half_ werewolf?” Paul rested his chin on the bridge he’d made of his hands. Sybilus nodded. “It’s–It’s actually a rather safe–er–sustainable–er– _admirable_ lifestyle–of sorts. Hopefully it wouldn’t–shouldn’t uproot your life too much.”

That seemed to make Paul smile even wider, which Sybilus hadn’t thought that possible.

“Did you guys know I was a half-werwolf the whole time?”

“Well–Well–I mean, not exactly the _whole_ time per say. But–I mean once we heard of your attack…and your, um, survival…we weren’t sure what had occurred. And we were concerned, of course, highly concerned! But to determine if you had simply been injured or if you had been…transfigured…even slightly–it required a closer proximity. But once you came to meet with us it was quite–quite obvious.”

“How can you tell? Was it like an on sight type thing? Are werewolves going to see me on the streets and demand a duel under yonder moonlight? Or am I just _rippling_ with supernatural power now? Because if I am that’s _definitely_ a good thing to know.”

“It’s based on smell, actually. You, ah, _smell_ different.”

“I showered last night though,” Paul immediately looked concerned and lifted the back of his forearm to his nose to inhale deeply. He furrowed his brows. “I don’t smell anything. Or, I mean, nothing different than usual.”

“It’s not an…obvious kind of smelling different. Perhaps with a bit–a bit–a bit of practice you’ll come to notice it as well–.” Sybilus offered, before suddenly trailing off as Paul leaned over the table with his eyes as sharp and as serious as Sybilus had ever seen them.

“ _Sybilus_ ,” Paul said gravely.

“P–P–Paul?” Sybilus all but whispered in their proximity, their faces inches apart, with Paul only moving closer.

“I have wanted to ask someone this for a long time.”

“Oh?” Sybilus dryly swallowed and refused the desire to tug at where his collar was pressing stiffly against his neck. He knew sudden movements in a moment like this would surely be disastrous.

Paul was staring at him like he was the only other occupant of the bar, and a part of Sybilus’s mind was screaming at him to run away now before he did something he’d never be able to undo.

He was sure that he was going to pass out any minute now as he was suddenly on eye-level with Paul’s lips. He also was vaguely aware of the sudden hush that had fallen over conversation near the bar, and he swore he could feel Helen and Rita’s eyes pinning him to his seat as he felt the warmth of Paul’s breath on his face.

_Sybilus moved forward, a fraction, a landslide. The pull, undeniable, impossible. He was–he was going to–._

“Can you tell me what I smell like? I’ve always wondered and Artemis never gives me enough details when I ask her.” His voice was a whisper, and yet it was as loud as a roar of the tide.

Paul then extended his arm so that it bumped directly under Sybilus’s nose, and Sybilus had to bark out a laugh as he jumped with the contact. It was either a laugh or a shriek.

It felt born of equal parts mania and relief, and it was a laugh that went on for far too long at the absurdity of the sudden motion and the sudden release of the tension in his chest like a snapping of a rubber band suddenly being loosed.

He laughed so hard tears began to leak out of his eyes, so hard that for a moment Sybilus entirely forgot that he was the subject of a soon to be amassed hunting party, and Paul withdrew his forearm somewhat sheepishly.

“Oh, man, is asking that like some kind of werewolf _faux-pas_? Because like if it is I am _so_ sorry I’ve just been curious about like ‘what do people _really_ smell like?’ for _so_ long and who better to provide a definitive answer to that question than a freaking _werewolf_? And maybe it would be like, like a _bonding_ thing like when dogs meet for the first time. But that…sounds kind of weird now that I’ve said it out loud. But like if that’s weird–if I’m weirding you out–you don’t have to–.”

“Oh, no,” Sybilus exclaimed breathlessly, removing his glasses to wipe at his eyes with the back of his hand. “No. It’s actually a rather regular–a common–a frequent request. I’ve been explaining the finer notes of Rita’s perfume to her from a lycanthropic perspective for as long as I’ve known her. I’m sorry for laugh–laughing, I…don’t know what came over me.”

“I mean, hey, you’ve got a lot of pressure my guy,” Paul said. “Plus if anyone’s allowed to laugh at me it’s for sure my new werewolf peeps.”

“Th–That’s also a somewhat– _out of use_ –turn of phrase.” The air between them felt new, a smile easily left on Sybilus’s face as neither immediately moved to speak.

_And yet–._

“You still w–want me to smell you, don’t you?”

“More than anything, yes.” Paul said, excitement making him squirm in his seat.

“W–W–Well if you’d like,” Sybilus reached out a hand for Paul’s, which he gave openly.

There was a slight and shallow cut on the side of his hand, perhaps from a shard of wood or crystal from the destruction of Prism’s shop, that flashed by as Paul moved to rest his hand palm-up in Sybilus’s own. It felt, strangely, as if he were about to read his palm.

“Rita says I look a bit strange doing this–it’s something I _focus_ on deep– _deeply_ –so you aren’t allowed to laugh, you understand.” Sybilus took a steadying breath, trying to give himself the space to bolster himself to do this. _Don’t be weird. Don’t be weird._

“Dude, this is the most serious I will _ever_ be,” Paul paused. “Or well, maybe the second most serious. I’m the most serious recording the narration for the show, you know, professionalism and all that. You do whatever you need to do, Wolf Buddy, I won’t say anything.”

Sybilus nodded, almost more to assure himself than Paul. He looked up into his eyes once more, gave an awkward and half-hearted smile, and released his breath.

He then raised Paul’s his palm up to his face, closed his eyes, and inhaled quickly and deeply through his nose–.

* * *

_Paul uses a lotion at night to help him sleep, lavender leaving whirling notes in the grooves of his skin. He’d washed his hands, recently, but the lavender refuses to be washed away after constant nightly application. It lingered across his palms and the back of his hands, a swirling constant in his skin._

_The starch of the napkin and the plastic of the pen all sat lightly on his hand already shedding softly from the briefest touch._

_Paul used a hair-care compound that dried early in the morning and lingered. He applied it with his fingers raking through his hair just as it dried, not careful but with tender attention. Shaking through the dark lengths and sending it to the air. It smelled of lemongrass, faintly, floral notes and something sweet and soft mingling with the scent of The Dead Canary–clean wood and something old and gently alcoholic._

_He used an oil in his beard, sweet almond and argan oil, the floating notes almost covering the iron remnant of the steak he’d sank his teeth into during his last meal. The scent coated his lips, slipped down his chin in rivulets. Steak, raw to the point of bleeding, a faint swirl of red just under his bottom lip that he’d never noticed to wipe away._

_Briefly Sybilus is distracted. How easy it would be to reach out for that hidden point of red, a point of hunger and life and cover it with his lips. The thought of how another scent might linger on his mouth–of a moment of brief physical intimacy where he could–could he–may he?_

_Focus._

_The faint bright chemical of glasses cleaner, used each morning, lingered about his face. A mist left on the lenses of his glasses, generic and easily replaced and wiped with the tail of a shirt, that dusted his face as the glasses rested on the bridge of his nose._

_And under that the smell of tide pens, scribbled hastily on old stains on sleeves and shirts in the car as he and Artemis drove through the night in pursuit of a story. Shirts washed in the familiar water from a Connor Creek sink at the hotel with soap that bunched slightly in splotches that Sybilus now comes to know with the intimacy of constellations._

_He used the complimentary soap from the shower of The Dead Canary, the bar small and smelling of old flowers, but hadn’t let the scent touch his back where the scent of his own blood and antiseptic lingered faintly. It sank into his palms and left trace amounts on his face. It had dried out the skin, slightly, not enough moisture in the bar._

_Lingering faintly around him was the smell of Artemis, the smell of family and home and heart all waiting around him like a shawl. A pair of arms braced about his shoulders, unmovable._

_He wore a pair of socks he lost in the bottom of his bag, the staticky smell of a suitcase clinging to him. They were mismatched, one far older carrying scents of a home so far away. Soft and muffled like someone humming across a room, a song you felt more than you heard._

_And under the clothes, on his skin, the dueling scents of man and wolf. Human blood, soft and flowing in a warm flush against the skin. Wolf blood, faint, roaring against the sky._

_There was no fear, no stress, only an open content and comfort here. It would be easy to roll up the sleeve and press his face to the soft touch of another, to get closer to it. A smell like welcoming home, like knowing you were seen but not shrinking away._

_The scent of a speeding car floating down a far off road, the window open and the breeze buffeting his face as the radio hummed impossible nothings. The smell of sunshine as the warmth coats his skin. Dust of an old place carried somewhere new to see. A scent that held both no place and every place, home following in footsteps and wrapping around him like a sweater._

_Paul. A fond sigh. A smile. Something beautiful and inexplicable and exciting._

_And just below it, the wolf at the door. The shadow that still kept pace with the car even as the sun beat down._

_What was now a familiar scent lingered below the skin. It was faint, layered imperceptibly under the breath that was humanity, but it was there all the same._

_Pines in the snow, the crackling of a storm as it bent the trees and ripped up earth. That power was now diluted to a simple hum, nothing more than the gentle drumming of rain against a car roof._

_The blood of something ancient and strong that was now inevitably and irrevocably a part of Paul._

_But it was not the grandest thing there._

_His hand, warm and soft and sturdy with rounded nails that would never sharpen or tear was earth-shattering._

_But there was more to tell, if he could only get close enough. The pulse point of life was thick and warm tracing all the way up to the space between Paul’s neck and shoulder, the place where he could simply breathe him in and let the rest of it fall away. A place Sybilus could get lost in. He moved his own hand and felt–_

_Paul’s hand, fingers entwined in Sybilus’s own,_ wait when did he? _Paul’s arm pulled close,_ when did he get so close? _With the press of something soft to his face_ what was he doing–

* * *

Sybilus’s eyes flew open in an instant to find himself holding Paul’s hand with their fingers intertwined with his face pressed against the soft rust-red sleeve of his hoodie.

He realized, all too slowly, that he was leaning as if to climb over the table to the other side, blinking slowly as if that would help make sense of how he had moved.

He realized that he couldn’t see past a few inches in front of him, the world beyond going blurry and nondescript in the golden light and shadows of the bar.

_His glasses, where–?_

Paul held his glasses in his other hand, and tentatively moved to slip them back onto his face. The rest of the world clicked back into focus.

_Oh, how he wished it wouldn’t._

“What?” Sybilus said with his voice muffled against Paul’s sleeve, groggy sounding as his mind slowly rose from whatever depths it sank into.

“Your glasses kind of fell off when you were…in the zone? You were like…rubbing your face on my arm and they got all…dangly? Like they were hanging off your ear? so I grabbed ‘em. Man, you weren’t kidding. I called your name like three times and you didn’t even flinch.”

“M–My–My apologies! This was–I was–” Sybilus took his words in stride, and immediately decided that he _would_ have to crawl under the table to die in peace. He all but threw Paul’s arm away from him in his frantic scramble back to his own booth, not that Paul particularly seemed to mind.

“I think you were even like, _growling_ , dude.” He sounded more impressed than anything else.

“I–I–“ Sybilus opened his mouth to explain himself but a gurgled sort of clicking noise was all his throat managed to produce.

That was it.

He was going to walk out of the bar, hunt down Sheriff Reynolds, and politely request to be put out of his misery.

“Hey,” Desmond called drolly like Sybilus hadn’t just been in the process of flinging himself across a table into Paul’s lap.

“ _Yes!_ ” Sybilus yelped and looked over Paul’s shoulder with a burning face to his three friends. Rita looked like the cat that had swallowed the canary in one bite, while Helen and Desmond at least had the decency to look nonplussed.

“Paul, we’ve been talking and we think it might be a good idea for you to go with Helen to try and talk some sense into Sheriff Reynolds.” Rita was saying, as Sybilus began to sink low in his seat and Paul turned to look at them over the booth.

“We’ll meet up with Olivia, between the three of us we might be able to shed some light on _our_ side of the story.” Helen put on her sunglasses with striking efficiency.

“ _Olivia’s_ a werewolf? I knew it! Nobody who isn’t sporting fangs can swallow steak that fast–what about Sybilus and Rita?” Paul asked, and his eyes turning to briefly Sybilus’s own before immediately looking away.

“They’ll be stayin’ here,” Desmond said. “It ain’t safe for folks like them to be out and about in the open right now unless absolutely necessary. Nobody’ll come lookin’ for ‘em in here.”

Paul nodded thoughtfully, and turned back to Sybilus. He opened his mouth as if to say something. But for the first time in the several days Sybilus had known him, Paul Schue-Horyn seemed briefly struck speechless.

Instead he simply stared, at Sybilus of all people.

And Sybilus could only stare back, equally struck dumb.

“We’ll talk about how I smell later,” Paul finally said.

“O–O–Of course.” Sybilus used his most assuring nod, as if he were agreeing on a time to meet to sign a mortgage. Things would be fine, the consistency of the dotted line would never falter even in the strangest of times.

Paul got out of the booth and again stopped, stared directly at Sybilus, but said nothing. He sighed, softly, and began to walk away.

_Something had to be done._

“Paul?” Sybilus called.

He stopped and turned around quickly, as if he had been waiting for an excuse to do so. “Yes?”

“Be smart–er safe– _careful_ out there,” he said.

Paul, looking too excited to be meddling in werewolf affairs, gave him a thumbs up.

“I will.”

And with that he and Helen were gone.

Sybilus watched after them, genuinely wondered what exactly he thought he was doing, and got up to join Rita and Desmond at the bar. Rita was pointedly looking in the opposite direction as he slid onto the stool next to her, and she was blissfully silent for about five seconds before leaning over.

“At least you didn’t lick him.”

Sybilus flailed an arm that was not meant to smack Rita in the face, but if it did he wasn’t going to be too upset about it, but she ducked under it.

“Enough fuckin’ around,” Desmond said sharply.

Sybilus had the sense to look as sheepish as he felt. Rita smiled sweetly, but they both came to attention.

Desmond drummed his knuckles on the bar, the closest thing to an anxious tick of his that Sybilus had ever seen him. “This thing is ending tonight. And one of two things is gonna happen. Either we’re gonna find whoever’s doin’ this and handle this ourselves, or we’re gonna die. So what have the two of you learned?”

Sybilus looked to Rita, who pulled the handkerchief from her bag and unfolded it. The white hair gleamed, strangely luminous, under the light of the bar.

Desmond went still as he looked at it.

“So they’re a wolf,” his voice was slow, almost rumbling as his brow furrowed deeply.

“All the signs matched up on the injuries. Height, bite radius, and modus operandi remained consistent across the victims. At this point only a single werewolf could have killed them, unless someone taken several hours to tamper with the bodies. Which they didn’t.” Rita spoke with the gentle confidence of someone who had spent long nights in the pristine chill of the morgue, measuring and contemplating the bodies of people she once knew with monk-like focus.

“And I can’t think of any white wol–white wolves in town, so they’re clearly an indivi–individual who has kept their lycanthropy a secret even from us.” Sybilus brought his hand to his mouth, resting his chin in his hand.

“What else?”

“Whoever this is they seem to be quite powerful–or at least–that is, powerful enough to remove all traces of human scent. Or, subsequently, powerful enough to hide any hint of lycanthropy when not full–fully transformed. There was something strange I noticed in smelling–in deciphering–in my investigation.”

Desmond’s eyes weren’t leaving the tuft of fur, but Sybilus took his silence as a sign to continue.

“Whoever this is they’re sufficiently ancient, it was obvious to the scent. I–I–I couldn’t help but draw the comparison…to you.”

“…you’re sayin’ they’re a Connor?” Desmond again, hardly moved, but his voice was the grating rasp of a blade against stone.

“No, no, not at all. It’s more about…the bloodline. Whoever did this might come from a family as old as your–as _ours_.”

“Ain’t seen many white wolves ‘round these parts,” Desmond said almost as if he were speaking to himself. “Not since…”

“Since when?” Rita was looking at Desmond like he’d figured something else.

“Since a war far older than either of you.”

“You–You–You can’t mean–.” Sybilus felt the blood drain from his face.

“ _MacMahon_ ,” Desmond spat the word with all the vitriol of a curse. His body remained completely still, even with his fangs slipping past his lips and his eyes going darker than Sybilus had ever seen them. Hair began to sprout through the seams of his clothes and Desmond still never moved. “Not in _my_ fuckin’ town. Not after all my god damn work. Nobody’s takin’ anything else from me, from us.”

He grabbed the tuft, raised it to his nose, and inhaled sharply, his head twitched to the side with a snarl painting his face. He swiveled towards the door and began to walk away just as Rita moved to block his path.

“Are you going to kill them?” Rita was looking up at Desmond in a moment of grim excitement.

“I’m goin’ to do what needs to be done to end all this.”

“W–W–Well if you are doing that,” Sybilus began to shrug out of his jacket. “We’re _obviously_ coming with you.”

“No. You two are stayin’ here.”

“Obviously _not_ ,” Rita seethed, her eyes shining gold.

“Really–Desmond–I can’t–I–you–you’ll need our help! Whoever this was _ki–ki–killed_ Odie. The pack _hunts_ together.” Sybilus moved in close. “We can’t let you do this alone. You can’t just–just– _charge_ out in the street like this. If the mobs don’t get you–we–we can’t lose _you_ , Desmond.”

Desmond’s breath was hot and his fangs gleamed in the light, but when he looked in Sybilus and Rita’s grim expressions he stopped. He braced one claw-tipped hands on each of their shoulders, gritted his teeth, and slowly pulled himself together, bit by agonizing bit.

It was a relatively human looking Desmond Connor who looked Sybilus in the eye like he loved him, fiercely and deeply, but also like he would pick Sybilus up over his head and toss him out of his way.

“I can’t be sure I’m gonna walk out of this one. And if that’s true…if I go down I can’t be the last Connor. Someone’s gotta stay back to protect the town if I fall. And I couldn’t think of two more capable candidates.”

“Desmond–,” Rita hissed.

“N–Now–.” Sybilus began, but Desmond cut them both off. “Just let me keep you safe.” It was a plea, more than anything else. Something Sybilus had never head Desmond do before. "Let me keep _some_ of you safe."

Sybilus looked to Rita helplessly, but she only looked back at him in turn.

“If I don’t come back, tell Quinn. Tell him everything. And tell him I loved him no matter what skin I wore…and tell him his Christmas present’s hidden in the broom closet. And protect the bar from any looters please. I spent a lot of good money fixin’ this place up.”

Sybilus nodded, suddenly at a complete loss for words.

Rita went behind the bar and, after downing the faint remnants of a bottle of whiskey, smashed it to wield the jagged pieces.

“At least that was an expensive bottle,” Desmond said fondly.

“You’d better come back,” Rita swept the jagged glass just off the bottle’s neck in Desmond’s direction in a watery-eyed threat.

“B–B–Because if you d–don’t we’ll have to c–c–come _find_ you.” Sybilus agreed.

Desmond simply nodded, looking proud and impossible all at once, silhouetted against the dark.

“Turn off the lights, be safe.” And with that he swept off into the night.

Rita looked at Sybilus.

Sybilus looked at Rita.

“Don’t you have today’s silver deposit in your briefcase?”

“T–Technically that’s a company _secret_ –as to the _exact_ location–.”

“Sybilus, it has been so obvious that’s how you transport it.”

Sybilus sighed. “Y–Yes, I do.”

“Well…how well do you think you could aim that at someone?”

Sybilus considered it briefly. “N–N–Not as well as you.”

Sybilus went to collect his briefcase from the booth and handed it to Rita, who used her free hand to open the case.

The silver gleamed in the light and sent a sour feeling into the air. The stinging reminder that even if this bit was small, this was a force that could kill them.

Still, Rita was a murderous picture, her elegant darkly-gloved hand hefting a chunk of silver only slightly bigger than a softball. “I’d have thought they’d refine it,” Rita said.

“N–Not enough time, they’ll be shipping it off for that.”

Rita tossed it up and down lightly as if testing its heft, as Sybilus went for the light switch. The two of them hunkered down behind the bar as the sound of an amassing crowd began to bounce against the glass. Footsteps. Chants. Strange flickering shadows in the darkness.

Rita with a chunk of silver in one hand and the jagged bottle in the ever, Sybilus having finally taken off his jacket and had no idea what to do with his hands.

“So, he has your number.” Rita mused.

“This is not the time.” Sybilus hissed, but he didn't need keen eyes in the dark to see Rita’s smirk.

Sybilus and knew that if he did survive this night he was going to have to figure out some way to either string the right words together to ask Paul to coffee, or a way to bind Rita in red tape until she’d stop making these jokes.

It really was going to be a long night.

But as he waited, heart-pounding, his mind occasionally was drawn back to a miraculous moment of assuredness. A sense, a pull, deep in his heart that bid him move ever so slightly towards Paul.

A miraculous night, which was what they'd need to survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys is it gay to hold a guy's hand and rub your face on his sleeve in a moment of smell-based euphoria? Asking for a friend.
> 
> Also you can't tell me the perfect werewolf romance trope is the whole *gay panic when your faces are too close and you could kiss but then the guy shoves his arm in your face and asks you if he smells* thing
> 
> Next time: the battle for Connor Creek ends, but what happens after?
> 
> ALSO WHEN IS ANYBODY GONNA KISS IN THIS DANG THING? *shakes the fic like a jar with the last peanut rattling around in it*
> 
> *the metaphorical peanut/kiss falls out* ; ) until next time.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it.


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